GIFT   OF 


// 


THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


OF 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 


COMPLETE    EDITION. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 
I87I. 


* 

;Ii 


V, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


NOTE   BY   THE   AUTHOR 

TO   THE   EDITION    OF    1857. 

IN  these  volumes,  for  the  first  time,  a  complete  collection  of  my 
poetical  writings  has  been  made.  While  it  is  satisfactory  to  know 
that  these  scattered  children  of  my  brain  have  found  a  home,  I 
cannot  but  regret  that  I  have  been  unable,  by  reason  of  illness,  to 
give  that  attention  to  their  revision  and  arrangement,  which  respect 
for  the  opinions  of  others  and  my  own  afterthought  and  experience 
demand. 

That  there  are  pieces  in  this  collection  which  I  would  "  willingly 
let  die,"  I  am  free  to  confess.  But  it  is  now  too  late  to  disown 
them,  and  I  must  submit  to  the  inevitable  penalty  of  poetical  as 
well  as  other  sins.  There  are  others,  intimately  connected  with 
the  author's  life  and  times,  which  owe  their  tenacity  of  vitality  to 
the  circumstances  under  which  they  were  written,  and  the  events 
by  which'  they  were  suggested. 

The  long  poem  of  Mogg  Megone  was,  in  a  great  measure,  com 
posed  in  early  life  ;  and  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  its  sub 
ject  is  not  such  as  the  writer  would  have  chosen  at  any  subsequent 
period. 

J.  G.  W. 
AMESBURY,  i&th  -$d mo.y  1857. 


292098 


PROEM. 


I  LOVE  the  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through, 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 

Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning  dew. 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try; 

I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 

In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 

The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 
The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 

Beat  often  Labor's  hurried  time, 
Or  Duty's  rugged  march  through  storm  and  strife,  are  here. 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies ; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 

Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 

Nor  mine  the  seer-like  power  to  show 
The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind  ; 

To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 

Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 
A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown  ; 

A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own. 

O  Freedom  !  if  to  me  belong 
Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvell's  wit  and  graceful  song, 

Still  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 
As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy  shrine  1 


AMESBURY,  \\th  mo.,  1847. 


CONTENTS. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 

Part  I.        .        .        ....'.. 3 

Part  II.           .        .        ...•..'..        .        .        .  9 

Part  III '15 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK.         . 21 

I.     The  Merrimack       .         .         .         .         .        .         .         .        .         .25 

ii.     The  Bashaba       ....". 26 

in.     The  Daughter         .         .         .         . 28 

iv.     The  Wedding      .         .        .        .                 29 

v.     The  New  Home     .         .         .         ...         .         .         .         -3° 

vi.     At  Pennacook     ..       .....,....'        .         .         .  32 

vn.     The  Departure        .         .         .         ...'..         .         -33 

vin.     Song  of  Indian  Women 34' 

LEGENDARY. 

The  Merrimack         .        ....        .        .• 37 

The  Norsemen       .                          38 

Cassandra  Southwick         .         .         .                          39 

Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis          .         .        .  • 43 

St.  John „ 44 

Pentucket  ^     ...         .         .        .        .         ,    ;  .' 46 

The  Familist's  Hymn       .         .         .         .        ,,   .     .         .         .         .  47 

The  Fountain         .         ....... 48 

The  Exiles     ~~ 49 

The  New  Wife  and  the  Old 52 

VOICES  OF  FEEEDOM. 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture     .         t  - 

The  Slave- Ships 

Stanzas.     Our  Countrymen  in  Chains      ......._ 

-The  Yankee  Girl                              L                 62 

To  W.  L.  G 63 

•Song  of  the  Free 

The  Hunters  of  Men 

Clerical  Oppressors 

JThe  Christian  Slave 

Stanzas  for  the  Times 67 


CONTENTS. 


Lines,  written  on  reading  the  Message  of  Governor  Ritner,  of  Pennsyl 
vania,  1836      ............ 

The  Pastoral  Letter 

Lines,  written  for  the  Meeting  of  the  Anti- Slavery  Society,  at  Chatham 
Street  Chapel,  N.  Y.,  1834 

Lines,  written  for  the  Celebration  of  the  Third  Anniversary  of  British 
Emancipation,  1837    . 

Lines,  written  for  the  Anniversary  of  the  First  of  August,  at  Mil 
ton,  1846         ............ 

The  Farewell  of  a  Virginia  Slave  Mother  to  her  Daughters  sold  into 
Southern  Bondage      .         .         .  

The  Moral  Warfare  .  ^.        .        .        .'       : 

The  World's  Convention       .         .         .         .         .         .         .         •         • 

New  Hampshire 

The   New  Year;    addressed    to    the    Patrons    of  the    Pennsylvania 
Freeman •    .        .        .        *  •  • 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia '  .        .        .        t 

The  Relic       ...'.'.'.        .  '-. 

'    The  Branded  Hand  .  ".        .  '.        .        .    .."  . 

Texas     .        .        .       .".        '.        .        .        '.        .    *-  .        '.    '  '  .        .'  ' 

To  Faneuil  Hall        ..   .     ..        .        .        .        ...       .        .        .        .        . 

To  Massachusetts  .         .        ,        .'.        .        .        .        •• 

The  Pine-Tree 

Lines,  suggested  by  a  Visit  to  the  City  of  Washington  in  the  1 2th 
month  of  1845     .         .         .         .     _   .         .         .         .         .... 

Lines,  from  a  Letter  to  a  young  Clerical  Friend 

Yprktown       .  _      .         .         .         .         .         .     '  .        .         .        .   '     . 

Lines,  written  in  the  Book  of  a  Friend 

Psean ;        ;        ...... 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Shipley         .      '.        .        ... 

To  a  Southern  Statesman      .         .         ......... 

Lines,  on  the  Adoption  of  Pinckney's  Resolutions          .        .        .        . 

The  Curse  of  the  Charter-Breakers      .-."'"«        . 

The  Slaves  of  Martinique          .        .        .        .        .        .'.•.'. 

The  Crisis 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  Knight  of  St.  John    .        ...        »        .        ,*^.  ..-.-. 

The  Holy  Land     .        .        .         .         .        »        .        I--.        •        •. 

Palestine    .       .....        *        .        .        «        •        •        *        >      !  • 

Ezekiel  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         »  r      •         •         •        m. 

The  Wife  of  Manoah  to  her  Husband      .         .'.*-.        . 

The  Cities  of  the  Plain          .        .        .        .         .        .        .        ,        . 

The  Crucifixion          .         •         .         .         .         .         .       •;•.'•-.         . 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem  ,        ,  \  ;«.     :  •.       • 

Hymns       .         .         .         .         .         .         t      '  •        .        » .       .        • 

The  Female  Martyr -     ,      .. 

The  Frost  Spirit •;  ,    .    /    • 

The  Vaudois  Teacher    .......        # 

The  Call  of  the  Christian 

My  Soul  and  I ,,.... 

To  a  Friend,  on  her  Return  from  Europe 

The  Angel  of  Patience 

Follen         .        .  


CONTENTS.  vii 

To  the  Reformers  of  England 123 

The  Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time        ........   123 

The  Reformer 124 

k  The  Prisoner  for  Debt       ..........   125 

Lines,  written  on  reading  Pamphlets  published  by  Clergymen  against 
the  Abolition  of  the  Gallows      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .126 

The  Human  Sacrifice 128 

Randolph  of  Roanoke   ..............         .         .       130 

Democracy 131 

To  Ronge       .         I         .....  1^2 

ChalkleyHall .  z« 

To  J.  P !34 

The  Cypress-Tree  of  Ceylon     . 134 

A  Dream  of  Summer    .         .        .        .        .         .         .         .  <  135 

J'° • 136 

Leggetts  Monument     .        .......:,.,.        .        .        .       138 

SONGS  OF  LABOR,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Dedication         .         .        ,        .        ...        .         .         .         .         .  141 

The  Ship-Builders 141 

The  Shoemakers        ',         '.        .        J        ^        .  '  .         .         .         .  143 

The  Drovers 143 

The  Fishermen         ...........  145 

The  Huskers 145 

The  Corn-Song 147 

The  Lumbermen   .        .        i        ;        j        .        .        .        .        .        .147 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

—  The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista  .  .  .  «'.."'.  .  .  .  149 

Forgiveness  .  .  .  ;  ;  I  '.  ;  .  .  .151 

Barclay  of  Ury :;.....  151 

What  the  Voice  said  .  .'  .'  .'  .'  .'  ;  .  .  .152 

To  Delaware  .  .  .  .  .  J  '.  I  ;  .  .  .153 

Worship       . '  .       .       ;      .      ;      ;      :      .       .       .     154 

The  Demon  of  the  Study          ..'.'.' 155 

The  Pumpkin ".        ..'...       157 

Extract  from  "A  New  England  Legend."  .  .        .        .        .        .  158 

Hampton  Beach 158 

Lines,  written  on  hearing  of  the  Death  of  Silas  Wright,  of  New  York  160 
Lines,  accompanying  Manuscripts  presented  to  a  Friend    .         .         .       160 
The  Reward      .         .         .   '     .         .         .'        .'        .         .         .         .         .   161 

Raphael          .....     .. .',  r    .,'-       ....        •         •         •       J^2 

Lucy  Hooper    .        .        .        .        .        '.        .        .        .     '  .        .        .   162 

Channing .".'.'.         .       164 

To  the  Memory  of  Charles  B.  Storrs        .'        .'        ,\  ,     ."        .         .         ."165 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  O.  Torrey 166 

A  Lament .         .        .'.'.'        .'".'," 166 

Daniel  Wheeler 167 

Daniel  Neall •     ..,     .  ,         .         .         .   169 

To  my  Friend  on  the  Death  of  his  Sister 170 

Gone ......  .  .   170 

^  The  Lake-side .        .       171 

v  The  Hill-top 172 

On  receiving  an  Eagle's  Quill  from  Lake  Superior      .        .        .        .173 


viii  CONTENTS. 

Memories T74 

The  Legend  of  St.  Mark 174 

The  Well  of  Loch  Maree.        .        . 17 5 

To  my  Sister ....... *76 

Autumn  Thoughts «7» 

Calef  in  Boston.  —  1692         .        .        .        .        .  .         •  i?7 

To  Pius  IX .        •        •        .177 

Elliott 178 

-*^Ichabod ! •        .-.,-..        .        .179 

The  Christian  Tourists .        .        .  179 

The  Men  of  Old .        .180 

The  Peace  Convention  at  Brussels 181 

The  Wish  of  To-day         .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  183 

Our  State l83 

All's  well 184 

Seed  Time  and  Harvest •'••        .        .  •     .       184 

To  A.  K .        .  184 

THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .189 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

Questions  of  Life       .         .         .        .        . *94 

The  Prisoners  of  Naples        .        .        .....        .         .       195 

Moloch  in  State  Street      .         .         .        .        .  .        .        •        •  *97 

The  Peace  of  Europe.  — 1852        .."..'.        .  .       198 

Wordsworth -        -198 

To 199 

In  Peace     .         .         .        '.         .         .         . J99 

Benedicite      .        .        .        .  -  '     .        .•.'...        .        .200 

Pictures     .         .        .        .        .        .     '  .     '  .        .        .        .        -        .200 

Derne     .        ....        .    '    .        .    '    .        .        . '      .        .        .      201 

Astrasa       .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .      9.        .        .        .203 

Invocation 203 

The  Cross .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  %     •        •     •  •        •        -203 

Eva .    •-.        •        •        -        •        .204 

To  Fredrika  Bremer •        -204 

^April '       .         .        •        -.        -        -         .204 

Stanzas  for  the  Times.  —  1850 .         .        .  205 

A  Sabbath  Scene .         .        .206 

Remembrance •.•.'...        .        .  207 

The  Poor  Voter  on  Election  Day 208 

Trust.        .        .        .        .        .        ..'.'...        .        .        .208 

~  Kathleen .      208 

First-day  Thoughts 210 

Kossuth ..'.'.        .        .         .210 

To  my  old  Schoolmaster  .         .        .'.'.- 211 

THE  PANORAMA,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Panorama       .         . 2I5 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Summer  by  the  Lakeside 224 


CONTENTS.  ix 

x  The  Hermit  of  the  Thebaid 225 

Burns 227 

William  Forster     .  228 

Rantoul     .............  229 

The  Dream  of  Pio  Nono       .        ....        .        .        .        .        .       230 

Tauler        .  .        .'       .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .231 

Lines    _ 233 

The  Voices 233 

The  Hero       .        .        .        ..       ..       . .       .        .        ....       235 

My  Dream         .        ........        .        .        .        .        .  236 

The  Barefoot  Boy 237 

—  Flowers  in  Winter    .         .         .         .        . ,      . 238 

The  Rendition       .        .        . .      .        .        . .       ...        .        •        .       239 

Lines          .        .        .        ....,-' 239 

The  Fruit-Gift        .        .        .        .        ..       .,./»?•.        .        .        .       240 

A  Memory 240 

To  C.  S 241 

The  Kansas  Emigrants     .        .        . 241 

Song  of  Slaves  in  the  Desert         .        .  "•  .        .        .        .        .       242 

Lines          .         .        ...        ...*.... 242 

The  New  Exodus  ..........      243 

The  Haschish 243 

BALLADS. 

Alary  Garvin .         .         .         .         .  «  .        .         .        .         .         .  244 

• — -Maud  Muller 247 

The  Ranger 248 

LATER  POEMS. 

The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn       .        .'."'.'.        .        .        .        .  253 
The  Mayflowers     .        .        •     - ,        .        .        .        .        .        .        .       256 

Burial  of  Barbour 257 

To  Pennsylvania    .         .        .        ...-.-       ...         .         .       258 

The  Pass  of  the  Sierra      .        .  .     ' 258 

The  Conquest  of  Finland      .  259 

A  Lay  of  Old  Time  .        .        .  .     '  , 259 

What  of  the  Day  ? 260 

-The  First  Flowers     .         .         .  .     " 261 

My  Namesake 261 

HOME  BALLADS. 

The  Witch's  Daughter 267 

The  Garrison  of  Cape  Ann 270 

The  Prophecy  of  Samuel  Sewall       .        .     • 272 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride    .'.'.'.•.•.•.'        .         .        .       274 

Telling  the  Bees        . 276 

—  The  Sycamores 277 

—  The  Double-headed  Snake  of  Newbury 278 

The  Swan  Song  of  Parson  Avery 280 

The  Truce  of  Piscataqua  .        . 281 

My  Playmate 283 

POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  Shadow  and  the  Light 287 


x  CONTENTS. 

The  Gift  ofTritemius 288 

The  Eve  of  Election          .        .    - 289 

The  Over-Heart .         .         .         .  290 

In  Remembrance  of  Joseph  Sturge          .        .        .    •     .         .         .  .  291 

Trinitas .         .  293 

The  Old  Burying-Ground          .         .        .*       .  -              .  -  -   .         .  .  294 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow .        .  -   -    . .       .        .        .  -       .        .        .         .  295 

My  Psalm .         .        .-.-.'        .        ........        .        .  .  296 

Le  Marais  du  Cygne      .         .        .        .        .        . 297 

"The  Rock"  in  El  Ghor         .        .        ........        .        .  .297 

On  a  Prayer-Book          .         ..-."..         .         .         .         .  298 

To  J.  T.  F.        .        ......        ....        .        .        .  .299 

The  Palm-Tree .300 

Lines  for  the  Burns  Festival     .         .        ........        .  .  301 

The  Red  River  Voyageur 301 

Kenoza  Lake .        .  .  302 

ToG.  B.  C 303 

The  Sisters '       .        .        .        .        .  .303 

Lines  for  an  Agricultural  Exhibition     .        .        .....        .        .  303 

The  Preacher    .         .         .         .         .        ...      .        .  .      .        .  .  304 

The  Quaker  Alumni      .        .        .        .        .        ..        ...  3°9*- 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie .  .      ..      .        ...  .313 

From  Perugia         .         .         .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  313 

For  an  Autumn  Festival  .        .        .        ....        .        .        .  .  315 

IN  WAR  TIME. 

Thy  Will  be  done  .         .        .        .'  .        .        .        »        .        .       319 

A  Word  for  the  Hour 319 

"  Ein  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott "  .         .         .         .        .        .        .        .       320 

To  John  C.  Fremont 321 

The  Watchers        .        .        .-.-.-.        .•  .        .  321 

To  Englishmen 322 

Astraea  at  the  Capitol    .         .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .         .       323 

The  Battle  Autumn  of  1862      .        .        .        .        .  -     .        .        .        .  324 

Mithridates  at  Chios      .         .        ...        .        .        .        .        .       324 

The  Proclamation      .        .         .        .        .        .  •      .        .        .        .        .  325 

Anniversary  Poem          .         .         .         .•         .  .         ...         .       32S 

At  Port  Royal    .        .        .        ...        .        .        .        .        .        ..       .327 

—  ••Barbara  Frietchie  .        .        .        .        .•-      ,        ••       .        ...      328 

BALLADS. 

— -Cobbler  Keezar's  Vision 329 

j^.  Amy  Wentworth .         .        »         .       33^ 

The  Countess    ............  334 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Naples.  — 1860 336 

The  Summons  .         .      ,  .  •         •         .  337 

The  Waiting .         . 337 

Mountain  Pictures. 

i.  Franconia  from  the  Pemigewasset  .......  338 

ii.  Monadnock  from  Wachuset 338 

Our  River          . 33$ 


CONTENTS.  xi 

Andrew  Rykman's  Prayer 340 

The  Cry  of  a  Lost  Soul 342 

Italy        

The  River  Path 343 

A  Memorial.     M.  A.  C.         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  344 

Hymn  sung  at  Christmas  by  the  Scholars  of  St.  Helena's  Island,  S.  C.  345 


SNOW-BOUND. 


347 


THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Tent  on  the  Beach 363 

The  Wreck  of  Rivermouth 366 

The  Grave  by  the  Lake 368 

The  Brother  of  Mercy '  ^72 

The  Changeling 373 

The  Maids  of  Attitash 375 

—  Kallundborg  Church          .         .         .  o77 

The  Dead  Ship  of  Harpswell '•'.'•       379 

The  Palatine 380 

Abraham  Davenport 38-3 

NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

The  Mantle  of  St.  John  De  Matha          .  .384 

What  the  Birds  said       .         .   • '  385 

Laus  Deo  !........  .  386 

The  Peace  Autumn ".".-"  387 

To  the  Thirty-Ninth  Congress         .        .        .        .        .        .  388 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

The  Eternal  Goodness  ..........       388 

Our  Master 

The  Vanishers '.*.'.       391 

Revisited _  392 

The  Common  Question 393 

Bryant  on  his  Birthday '  303 

Hymn   for  the   Opening  of  Thomas   Starr   King's   House   of  Wor 
ship,   1864 „ . 

Thomas  Starr  King '.'.'.  394 

AMONG  THE  HILLS        ...........      397 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  Clear  Vision       ...,.'  ,o6 

The  Dole  of  Jarl  Thorkell    . 

The  Two  Rabbis "  ^Og 

The  Meeting °  ' 

The  Answer 

G.  L.  S '    .    "    .    '  .*,*}," 

Freedom  in  Brazil     ..........  4I^ 

Divine  Compassion 

Lines  on  a  Fly-Leaf ."....  414 

Hymn  for  the  House  of  Worship  at  Georgetown    *    .        .        .         .415 

NOTES .417 


MOGG    MEGONE. 

1835- 


MOGG    MEGONE. 


[THE  story  of  MOGG  MEGONE  has  been  considered  by  the  author  only  as  a 
framework  for  sketches  of  the  scenery  of  New  England,  and  of  its  early  inhab 
itants.  In  portraying  the  Indian  character,  he  has  followed,  as  closely  as  his  story 
would  admit,  the  rough  but  natural  delineations  of  Church,  Mayhew,  Charlevoix, 
and  Roger  Williams;  and  in  so  doing  he  has  necessarily  discarded  much  of  the 
romance  which  poets  and  novelists  have  thrown  around  the  ill-fated  red  mar-  - 


PART   I. 


WHO  stands  on  that  cliff,  like  a  figure 

of  stone, 
Unmoving  and  tall  in  the  light  of  the 

sky, 

Where  the  spray  of  the  cataract  spar 
kles  on  high, 

Lonely  and   sternly,  save   Mogg  Me- 
gone? * 

Close  to  the  verge  of  the  rock  is  he, 
While  beneath  him  the  Saco  its  work 
is  doing, 

Hurrying  down  to  its  grave,  the  sea, 
And  slow  through  the  rock  its  path 
way  hewing  ! 

Far  down,  through  the  mist  of  the  fall 
ing  river, 

Which  rises  up  like  an  incense  ever, 

The  splintered  points  of  the  crags  are 
seen, 

With  water  howling  and  vexed  between, 

While  the  scooping  whirl  of  the  pool  be 
neath 

Seems  an  open  throat,  with  its  granite 
teeth ! 

But  Mogg  Megone  never  trembled  yet 
Wherever  his  eye  or  his  foot  was  set. 
He  is  watchful :  each  form  in  the  moon 
light  dim, 

Of  rock  or  of  tree,  is  seen  of  him  : 
He   listens ;   each   sound  from  afar  is 

caught, 

The  faintest  shiver  of  leaf  and  limb  : 
But  he  sees  not  the  waters,  which  foam 
*na  fret. 


Whose  moonlit  spray  has  his  moccasin 

wet,  — 
And  the  roar  of  their  rushing,  he  hears 

it  not. 

The  moonlight,  through  the  open  bough 
Of  thegnarl'd  beech,  whose  naked  root 
Coils  like  a  serpent  at  his  foot, 

Falls,  checkered,  on  the  Indian's  brow. 

His  head  is  bare,  save  only  where 

Waves  in  the  wind  one  lock  of  hair, 
Reserved  for  him,  whoe'er  he  be, 

More  mighty  than  Megone  in  strife, 
When,  breast  to  breast  and  knee  to 
knee, 

Above  the  fallen  warrior's  life 

Gleams,  quick  and  keen,  the  scalping- 
knife. 

Megone  hath  his  knife  ancf  hatchet  and 

gun, 

And  his  gaudy  and  tasselled  blanket  on  : 
His  knife  hath  a  handle  with  gold  inlaid, 
And  magic  words  on  its  polishedblade, — 
'T  was  the  gift  of  Castine  2  to  Mogg  Me 
gone, 
For  a  scalp  or  twain  from  the  Yengees 

torn  : 

His  gun  was  the  gift  of  the  Tarrantine, 

And  Modocawando's  wives  had  strung 

The  brass  and  the  beads,  which  tinkle 

and  shine 
Onthe  polished  breech,  and  broadbright 

line 
Of  beaded  wampum  around  it  hung. 


tr  ME  GONE, 


What  seekj   Megone?     His  foes  are 

neai,  — 

Grey  Jocelyn's3  eye  ;s  never  sleeping, 
And   the   garrison   lights  are   burning 

clear, 
Where  Phillips'  4  men  their  watch  are 

keeping. 
Let  him  hie  him  away  through  the  dank 

river  fog, 

Never  rustling  the  boughs  nor  dis 
placing  the  rocks, 
For  the  eyes  and  the  ears  which  are 

watching  for  Mogg, 
Are  keener  than  those  of  the  wolf  or 
the  fox. 

He  starts,  —  there  's  a  rustle  among  the 

leaves : 
Another,  —  the   click  of  his  gun  is 

heard! 

A  footstep  —  is  it  the  step  of  Cleaves, 
With  Indian  blood   on  his   English 

sword  ? 
Steals  Harmon 5  down  from  the  sands 

of  York, 

With  hand  of  iron  and  foot  of  cork? 
Has  Scamman,  versed  in  Indian  wile, 
For  vengeance  left  his  vine-hung  isle?6 
Hark  !  at  that  whistle,  soft  and  low, 

How  lights  the  eye  of  Mogg  Megone! 

A  smile  gleams  o'er  his  dusky  brow,  — 

"  Boon  welcome,  Johnny  Bonython ! " 

Out  steps,  with  cautious  foot  and  slow, 
And  quick,  keen  glances  to  and  fro, 

The  hunted  outlaw,  Bonython  !  7 
A  low,  lean,  swarthy  man  is  he, 
With  blanket-garb  and  buskined  knee. 

And  naught  of  English  fashion  on  ; 
For  he  hates  the  race  from  whence  he 

sprung, 

And  he  couches  his  words  in  the  Indian 
tongue. 

"  Hush,  —  let  the   Sachem's  voice  be 

weak  ; 

The  water-rat  shall  hear  him  speak,  — 
The  owl  shall  whoop  in  the  white  man's 

ear, 
That  Moecg  Megone,  with  his  scalps,  is 

here  !" 
He  pauses,  —  dark,   over  cheek    and 

brow, 
A  flush,  as  of  shame,  is  stealing  now : 


"  Sachem  !  "  he  says,  "let  me  have  the 

Ir.ncl, 

Which  stretches  away  upon  either  hand, 
/YI  fur  cibout  as  my  feet  can  stray 
In  the  half  of  a  gentle  summer's  day, 
From  the  leaping  brook  8  to  the  Saco 

river,  — 
And  the  fair-haired  girl,  thouhast  sought 

of  me, 
Shall  sit  in  the  Sachem's  wigwam,  and 

be 
The  wife  of  Mogg  Megone  forever." 

There  's  a  sudden  light  in  the  Indian's 

glance, 
A  moment's  trace  of  powerful  feeling, 

Of  love  or  triumph,  or  both  perchance, 
Over  his  proud,  calm  features  steal 
ing. 

"  The  words  of  my  father  are  very  good  ; 

He  shall  have  the  land,  and  water,  and 
wood  ; 

And  he  who  harms  the  Sagamore  John, 

Shall  feel  the  knife  of  Mogg  Megone ; 

But  the  fawn  of  the  Yengees  shall  sleep 
on  my  breast, 

And  the  bird  of  the  clearing  shall  sing 
in  my  nest." 

"But,  father  !" — and  the  Indian's  hand 

Falls  gently  on  the  white  man's  arm, 
And  with  a  smile  as  shrewdly  bland 

As  the  deep  voice  is  slow  and  calm,  — 
"Where  is  my  father's  singing-bird, — 

The  sunny  eye,  and  sunset  hair? 
I  know  I  have  my  father's  word, 

And  that  his  word  is  good  and  fair; 

But  will  my  father  tell  me  where 
Megone    shall    go    and    look  for    his 

bride?  — 
For  he  sees  her  not  by  her  father's  side." 

The  dark,  stern  eye  of  Bonython 

Flashes  over   the  features  of  Mogg 

Megone, 
In  one  of  those  glances  which  search 

within  ; 

But  the  stolid  calm  of  the  Indian  alone 
Remains  where  the  trace  of  emotion 

has  been. 
"Does  the  Sachem  doubt?    Let  him  go 

with  me, 

And  the  eyes  of  the  Sachem  his  bride 
shall  see." 


MOGG  ME  GONE. 


Cautious  and  slow,  with  pauses  oft, 
And  watchful  eyes  and  whispers  soft, 
The  twain  are  stealing  through  the  wood, 
Leaving  the  downward-rushing  flood, 
Whose  deep  and  solemn  roar  behind 
Grows  fainter  on  the  evening  wind. 

Hark  !  — is  that  the  angry  howl 

Of  the  wolf,  the  hills  among?  — 
Or  the  hooting  of  the  owl, 

On  his  leafy  cradle  swung  ?  — 
Quickly  glancing,  to  and  fro, 
Listening  to  each  sound  they  go 
Round  the  columns  of  the  pine, 

Indistinct,  in  shadow,  seeming 
Like  some  old  and  pillared  shrine  ; 
With  the  soft  and  white  moonshine, 
Round  the  foliage-tracery  shed 
Of  each  column's  branching  head, 

For  its  lamps  of  worship  gleaming  ! 
And  the  sounds  awakened  there, 

In  the  pine-leaves  fine  and  small, 

Soft  and  sweetly  musical, 
By  the  fingers  of  the  air, 
For  the  anthem's  dying  fall 
Lingering  round  some  temple's  wall ! 
Niche  and  cornice  round  and  round 
Wailing  like  the  ghost  of  sound  ! 
Is  not  Nature's  worship  thus, 

Ceaseless  ever,  going  on  ? 
Hath  it  not  a  voice  for  us 

In  the  thunder,  or  the  tone 
Of  the  leaf-harp  faint  and  small, 

Speaking  to  the  unsealed  ear 

Words  of  blended  love  and  fear, 
Of  the  mighty  Soul  of  all  ? 

Naught  had  the  twain  of  thoughts  like 
these 

As    they    wound    along    through    the 
crowded  trees, 

Where  never  had  rung  the  axeman's 
stroke 

On   the   gnarled   trunk  of  the  rough- 
barked  oak  ;  — 

Climbing  the  dead  tree's  mossy  log, 
Breaking  the  mesh  of  the  bramble 

fine, 
Turning  aside  the  wild  grape  vine, 

And  lightly  crossing  the  quaking  bog 

Whose  surface  shakes  at  the  leap  of 
the  frog, 

And  out  of  whose  pools  the  ghostly  fog 
Creeps  into  the  chill  moonshine  1 


Yet,  even  that  Indian's  ear  had  heard 
The  preaching  of  the  Holy  Word  : 
Sanchekantacket's  isle  of  sand 
Was  once  his  father's  hunting  land, 
Where  zealous  Hiacoomes  9  stood,  — 
The  wild  apostle  of  the  wood, 
Shook  from  his  soul  the  fear  of  harm, 
And  trampled  on  the  Powwaw's  charm  ; 
Until  the  wizard's  curses  hung 
Suspended  on  his  palsying  tongue, 
And  the  fierce  warrior,  grim  and  tall, 
Trembled  before  the  forest  Paul  ! 

A  cottage  hidden  in  the  wood,  — 
Red   through  its  seams  a    light    is 

glowing, 
On  rock  and  bough  and  tree-trunk  rude, 

A  narrow  lustre  throwing. 
"Who's   there?"  a  clear,  firm  voice 

demands ; 

"Hold,    Ruth,  — 'tis    I,   the   Saga 
more  !  " 
Quick,  at  the  summons,  hasty  hands 

Unclose  the  bolted  door  ; 
And  on  the  outlaw's  daughter  shine 
The  flashes  of  the  kindled  pine. 

Tall  and  erect  the  maiden  stands, 
Like   some   young  priestess  of  the 

wood, 

The  freeborn  child  of  Solitude, 
And  bearing  still  the  wild  and  rude, 
Yet  noble  trace  of  Nature's  hands. 
Her  dark  brown  cheek  has  caught  its 

stain 

More  from  the  sunshine  than  the  rain  ; 
Yet,  where  her  long  fair  hair  is  parting, 
A  pure  white  brow  into  light  is  start 
ing; 
And,    where   the  folds  of  her  blanket 

sever, 

Are  a  neck  and  bosom  as  white  as  ever 
The  foam-wreaths  rise  on  the  leaping 

river. 

But  in  the  convulsive  quiver  and  grip 
Of  the  muscles  around  her  bloodless 

lip, 
There  is  something  painful  and  sad 

to  see  ; 
And  her  eye  has  a  glance  more  sternly 

wild 
Than  even  that  of  a  forest  child 

In  its  fearless  and  untamed  freedom 

should  be. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Yet,  seldom  in  hall  or  court  are  seen 
So  queenly  a  form  and  so  noble  a  mien, 
As  freely  and  smiling  she  welcomes 

them  there,  — 

Her  outlawed  sire  and  Mogg  Megone  : 
"  Pray,  father,  how  does  thy  hunting 

fare  ? 
And,  Sachem,  say,  —  does  Scamman 

wear, 
In  spite  of  thy  promise,  a  scalp  of  his 

own  ?" 
Hurried  and  light  is  the  maiden's  tone  ; 

But  a  fearful  meaning  lurks  within 
Her  glance,  as  it  questions  the  eye  of 

Megone,  — 

An  awful  meaning  of  guilt  and  sin  !  — 
The  Indian  hath  opened  his  blanket, 

and  there 
Hangs  a  human  scalp  by  its  long  damp 

hair  ! 
With  hand  upraised,  with  quick-drawn 

breath, 

She  meets  that  ghastly  sign  of  death. 
In  one  long,  glassy,  spectral  stare 
The  enlarging  eye  is  fastened  there, 
As  if  that  mesh  of  pale  brown  hair 

Had  power  to  change  at  sight  alone, 
Even  as  the  fearful  locks  which  wound 
Medusa's  fatal  forehead  round, 

The  gazer  into  stone. 
With  such  a  look  Herodias  read 
The  features  of  the  bleeding  head. 
So  looked  the  mad  Moor  on  his  dead, 
Or  the  young  Cenci  as  she  stood, 
O'er-dabbled  with  a  father's  blood  ! 

Look  !  —  feeling     melts     that    frozen 

glance, 

It  moves  that  marble  countenance, 
As  if  at  once  within  her  strove 
Pity  with  shame,  and  hate  with  love. 
The  Past  recalls  its  joy  and  pain, 
Old  memories  rise  before  her  brain,  — 
The  lips  which  love's  embraces  met, 
The  hand  her  tears  of  parting  wet, 
The  voice  whose   pleading  tones  be 
guiled 

The  pleased  ear  of  the  forest- child,  — 
And  tears  she  may  no  more  repress 
Reveal  her  lingering  tenderness. 

O,  woman  wronged,  can  cherish  hate 
More  deep  and  dark  than  manhood 
may; 


But  when  the  mockery  of  Fate 

Hath  left  Revenge  its  chosen  way, 
And  the  fell  curse,  which  years  have 

nursed, 

Full  on  the  spoiler's  head  hath  burst,  — 
When  all  her  wrong,  and  shame,  and 

pain, 

Burns  fiercely  on  his  heart  and  brain, — 
Still  lingers  something  of  the  spell 
Which  bound  her  to  the  traitor's  bo 
som,  — 

Still,  midst  the  vengeful  fires  of  hell, 
Some  flowers  of  old  affection  blossom. 

John  Bonython's  eyebrows  together  are 

drawn 
With  a  fierce  expression  of  wrath  and 

scorn, — 

He  hoarsely  whispers,  "  Ruth,  beware  ! 
Is  this  the  time   to  be  playing  the 

fool,  — 
Crying  over  a  paltry  lock  of  hair, 

Like  a  love-sick  girl  at  school?  — 
Curse  on  it !  —  an  Indian  can  see  and 

hear : 
Away,  —  and     prepare     our     evening 

cheer!  " 

How  keenly  the  Indian  is  watching  now 

Her  tearful  eye  and  her  varying  brow, — 

With  a  serpent  eye,   which  kindles 

and  burns, 

Like  a  fiery  star  in  the  upper  air  : 
On  sire  and  daughter  his  fierce  glance 

turns  :  — 
"  Has  my  old  white  father  a  scalp  to 

spare  ? 
For  his  young  one  loves  the   pale 

brown  hair 

Of  the  scalp  of  an  English  dog,  far  more 
Than  Mogg  Megone,  or  his  wigwam 

floor  : 
Go,  —  Mogg  is  wise  :  he  will  keep  his 

land, — 
And  Sagamore  John,  when  he  feels 

with  his  hand, 

Shall    miss  his   scalp    where   it  grew 
before." 

The  moment's  gust  of  grief  is  gone,  — 
The  lip  is  clenched,  —  the  tears  are 
still,  — 

God  pity  thee,  Ruth  Bonythpn  ! 
With  what  a  strength  of  will 


MOGG  ME  GONE. 


Are  nature's  feelings  in  thy  breast, 
As  with  an  iron  hand,  repressed  ! 
And  how,  upon  that  nameless  woe, 
Quick  as  the  pulse  can  come  and  go, 
While  shakes  the  unsteadfast  knee,  and 

yet 

The  bosom  heaves,  — the  eye  is  wet, — 
Has  thy  dark  spirit  power  to  stay 
The  heart's  wild  current  on  its  way? 
And  whence  that  baleful  strength  of 

guile, 

Which  over  that  still  working  brow 
And  tearful  eye  and  cheek,  can  throw 

The  mockery  of  a  smile? 
Warned    by    her    father's   blackening 

frown, 

With  one  strong  effort  crushing  down 

Grief,  hate,  remorse,  she  meets  again 

The  savage  murderer's  sullen  gaze, 

And  scarcely  look  or  tone  betrays 

How  the  heart  strives  beneath  its  chain. 

"  Is  the  Sachem  angry,  —  angry  with 

Ruth, 
Because  she  cries  with  an  ache  in  her 

tooth,  10 
Which  would  make  a  Sagamore  jump 

and  cry, 

And  look  about  with  a  woman's  eye? 
No,  —  Ruth  will  sit  in  the   Sachem's 

door 

And  braid  the  mats  for  his  wigwam  floor, 
And  broil  his  fish  and  tender  fawn, 
And  weave  his  wampum,  and  grind  his 

corn, — 
For  she  loves  the  brave  and  the  wise, 

and  none 

Are    braver    and    wiser    than    Mogg 
Megone  !  " 

The  Indian's  brow  is  clear  once  more  : 

With  grave,  calm  face,  and  half-shut 

eye, 
He  sits  upon  the  wigwam  floor, 

And  watches  Ruth  go  by, 
Intent  upon  her  household  care  ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  while, 
Or  on  the  maiden,  or  her  fare, 
Which  smokes  in  grateful  promise  there, 

Bestows  his  quiet  smile. 

Ah,    Mogg   Megone  !  —  what   dreams 

are  thine, 

But  those  which  love's  own  fancies 
dress,  — 


The  sum  of  Indian  happiness  !  — 
A  wigwam,  where  the  warm  sunshine 
Looks  in  among  the  groves  of  pine,  — 
A  stream,  where,  round  thy  light  canoe, 
The  trout  and  salmon  dart  in  view, 
And  the  fair  girl,  before  thee  now, 
Spreading  thy  mat  with  hand  of  snow, 
Or  plying,  in  the  dews  of  morn, 
Her  hoe  amidst  thy  patch  of  corn, 
Or  offering  up,  at  eve,  to  thee, 
Thy  birchen  dish  of  hominy  ! 

From  the  rude  board  of  Bonython, 
Venison  and  suckatash  have  gone,  — 
For  long  these  dwellers  of  the  wood 
Have  felt  the  gnawing  want  of  food. 
But   untasted   of   Ruth  is   the   frugal 

cheer,  — 

With  head  averted,  yet  ready  ear, 
She  stands  by  the  side  of  her  austere  sire, 
Feeding,  at  times,  the  unequal  fire 
With  the  yellow  knots  of  the  pitch-pine 

tree, 

Whose  flaring  light,  as  they  kindle,  falls 
On  the  cottage-roof,  and  its  black  log 

walls, 
And  over  its  inmates  three. 

From   Sagamore   Bonython's  hunting 

flask 

The  fire-water  burns  at  the  lip  of  Me 
gone  : 
"  Will  the  Sachem  hear  what  his  father 

shall  ask  ? 
Will  he  make  his  mark,  that  it  may 

be  known, 
On  the  speaking-leaf,  that  he  gives  the 

land, 
From  the  Sachem's  own,  to  his  father's 

hand?" 
The  fire-water  shines  in  the  Indian's 

eyes, 
As  he  rises,  the  white  man's  bidding 

to  do  : 
"  Wuttamuttata  —  weekan  I11  Mogg  is 

wise,  — 
For  the  water  he  drinks  is   strong 

and  new,  — 
Mogg's  heart  is  great !  —  will  he  shut 

his  hand, 

When  his  father  asks  for  a  littlelancl?  " — 
With  unsteady  fingers,  the  Indian  lias 

drawn 
On   the   parchment  the  shape  of  a 

hunter's  bow, 


MOGG  ME  GONE. 


"  Boon  water,  —  boon  water,  —  Saga 
more  John  ! 

Wuttamuttata,  —  weekan  !  our  hearts 
will  grow  !  " 

He  drinks  yet    deeper,  —  he   mutters 
low,  — 

He  reels  on  his  bear-skin  to  and  fro,  — 

His    head    falls  down  on   his    naked 
breast,  — 

Hestruggles,  andsinksto  a  drunken  rest. 

"  Humph  —  drunk  as  a  beast !  "  —  and 

Bonython's  brow 

Isdarkerthan  ever  with  evil  thought — 
"  The   fool    has  signed    his    warrant ; 

but  how 

And  when  shall  the  deed  be  wrought? 
Speak,  Ruth !  why,  what  the  devil  is 

there, 

To  fix  thy  gaze  in  that  empty  air?  — 
Speak,  Ruth  !  by  my  soul,  if  I  thought 

that  tear. 
Which  shames  thyself  and  our  purpose 

here, 

Were  shed  for  that  cursed  and  pale- 
faced  dog, 
Whose  green  scalp  hangs  from  the  belt 

of  Mogg, 
And  whose  beastly  soul  is  in  Satan's 

keeping,  — 
This — this!" — he  dashes   his   hand 

upon 

The  rattling  stock  of  his  loaded  gun, — 
"  Should  send  thee  with  him  to  do 

thy  weeping ! " 

"  Father !  "  —  the  eye  of  Bonython 
Sinks  at  that  low,  sepulchral  tone, 
Hollow  and  deep,  as  it  were  spoken 

By  the  unmoving  tongue  of  death, — 
Or  from   some   statue's  lips   had  bro 
ken, — 

A  sound  without  a  breath  ! 
"  Father  !  —  my  life  I  value  less 
Than  yonder  fool  his  gaudy  dress  ; 
And  how  it  ends  it  matters  not, 
By  heart-break  or  by  rifle-shot  ; 
But  spare  awhile  the  scoff  and  threat,  — 
Our  business  is  not  finished  yet." 

"True,  true,  my  girl,  — I  only  meant 
To  draw  up  again  the  bow  unbent. 
Harm  thee,  my  Ruth  !  I  only  sought 
To  frighten  off  thy  gloomy  thought ;  -.. 


Come,  —  let 's  be  friends ! "    He  seeks 

to  clasp 

His  daughter's  cold,  damp  hand  in  his. 
Ruth  startles  from  her  father's  grasp, 
As  if  each  nerve  and  muscle  felt, 
Instinctively,  the  touch  of  guilt, 
Through  all  their  subtle  sympathies. 

He  points  her  to  the  sleeping  Mogg: 
"  What  shall  be  done  with  yonder  dog? 
Scamman    is    dead,    and    revenge    is 

thine,  — 

The  deed  is  signed  and  the  land  is  mine ; 
And  this  drunken  fool  is  of  use  no 

more, 
Save  as  thy  hopeful  bridegroom,  and 

sooth, 
'T  were  Christian  mercy  to  finish  him, 

Ruth, 
Now,  while  he  lies  like  a  beast  on  our 

floor,  — 

If  not  for  thine,  at  least  for  his  sake, 
Rathf.r  than  let  the  poor  dog  awake 
To  drain  my  flask,  and  claim  as  his  bride 
Such  a  forest  devil  to  run  by  his  side,  -  — 
Such  a  Wetuomanit 12  as  thou  would-rt 

make  ! " 

He  laughs  at  his  jest.     Hush  —  what 

is  there  ?  — 

Thesleeping  Indian  is  striving  to  rise, 
With  his  knife  in  his  hand,  and  glar 
ing  eyes ! — 

"  Wagh  !  —  Mogg  will  have  the  pale 
face's  hair, 

For  his  knife  is  sharp,  and  his  fin 
gers  can  help 

The  hair  to  pull  and  the  skin  to  peel,  -  - 
Let  him  cry  like  a  woman  and  twist 

like  an  eel, 
The  great  Captain   Scamman  must 

lose  his  scalp  ! 
And  Ruth,  when  she  sees  it,  shall  dance 

with  Mogg." 
His  eyes  are  fixed,  —  but  his  lips  draw 

in,  — 

With  a  low,  hoarse  chuckle,  and  fiend 
ish  grin,  — 

And  he  sink?  again,  like  a  senseless 
log. 

Ruth  does  not  speak,  —  she  does  not 

stir ; 
But  she  gazes  down  on  the  murderer. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Whose  broken  and  dreamful  slumbers 
tell 

Too  much  for  her  ear  of  that  deed  of 
hell. 

She  sees  the  knife,  with  its  slaughter  red, 

And  the  dark  fingers  clenching  the  bear 
skin  bed  ! 

What  thoughts  of  horror  and  madness 
whirl 

Through  the  burning  brain  of  that  fallen 
girl! 

John  Bonython  lifts  his  gun  to  his  eye, 
Its  muzzle  is  close  to   the    Indian's 

ear,  — 
But  he  drops  it  again.    "  Some  one  may 

be  nigh, 
And  I  would  not  that  even  the  wolves 

should  hear." 
He  draws  his  knife  from  its  deer-skin 

belt,  — 

Its  edge  with  his  fingers  is  slowly  felt ;  — 
Kneeling  down  on  one  knee,  by  the 

Indian's  side, 
From  his  throat  he  opens  the  blanket 

wide  ; 

And  twice  or  thrice  he  feebly  essays 
A  trembling  hand  with   the  knife  to 

raise. 

"  I  cannot,"  — he  mutters,  —  "  did  he 

not  save 

My  life  from  a  cold  and  wintry  grave, 
When  the  storm  came  down  from  Agioo- 

chook, 
And  the  north-wind  howled,  and  the 

tree-tops  shook,  — 

And  I  strove,  in  the  drifts  of  the  rush 
ing  snow, 
Till  my  knees  grew  weak  and  I  could 

not  go, 

And  I  felt  the  cold  to  my  vitals  creep, 
And  my  heart's  blood  stiffen,  and  pulses 

sleep  ! 

I  cannot  strike  him  —  Ruth  Bonython  ! 
In  the  Devil's  name,  tell  me  —  what 's 

to  be  done  ?  " 


O,  when  the  soul,  once  pure  and  high, 
Is  stricken  down  from  Virtue's  sky, 
As,  with  the  downcast  star  of  morn, 
Some  gems  of  light  are  with  it  drawn,  — 
And,  through  its  night  of  darkness,  play 
Some  tokens  of  its  primal  day,  — 
Some  lofty  feelings  linger  still,  — 

The  strength  to  dare,  the   nerve   to 
meet 

Whatever  threatens  with  defeat 
Its  all-indomitable  will  !  — 
But  lacks  the  mean  of  mind  and  heart, 

Though  eager  for  the  gains  of  crime, 

Oft,  at  his  chosen  place  and  time, 
The  strength  to  bear  his  evil  part ; 
And,  shielded  by  his  verjr  Vice, 
Escapes  from  Crime  by  Cowardice. 

Ruth    starts    erect,  —  with   bloodshot 

eye, 

And  lips  drawn  tight  across  her  teeth, 
Showing  their  locked  embrace  beneath, 
In  the  red  fire-light :  —  "  Mogg  must 

die  ! 
Give   me   the   knife!"  —  The    outlaw 

turns, 

Shudderinginheartand  limb,  away, — 
But,  fitfully  there,  the  hearth-fire  burns, 
And  he  sees  on  the  wall  strange  shad 
ows  play. 

A  lifted  arm,  a  tremulous  blade, 
Are  dimly  pictured  in  light  and  shade, 
Plunging    down    in    the    darkness. 

Hark,  that  cry 

Again  —  and  again  —  he  sees  it  fall,  — 
That  shadowy  arm   down  the   lighted 

wall ! 
He  hears  quick  footsteps  —  a  shape 

flits  by  — 
The     door    on    its    rusted     hinges 

creaks  :  — 
"  Ruth  —  daughter  Ruth  ! "  the  outlaw 

shrieks. 

But  no  sound  comes  back,  —  he  is  stand 
ing  alone 

By  the  mangled  corse  of  Mogg  Me- 
gone  ! 


PART   II. 


'T  is  morning  over  Norridgewock,  — 
On  tree  and  wigwam,  wave  and  rock. 
Bathed  in  the  autumnal  sunshine,  stirred 


At  intervals  by  breeze  and  bird, 
And  wearing  all  the  hues  which  glow 
In  heaven's  own  pure  and  perfect  bow, 


MOGG  ME  GONE. 


That  glorious  picture  of  the  air, 
Which  summer'slight-robed angel  forms 
On  the  dark  ground  of  fading  storms, 

With    pencil    dipped    in     sunbeams 

there,  — 

And,  stretching  out,  on  either  hand, 
O'er  all  that  wide  and  unshorn  land, 
Till,  weary  of  its  gorgeousness, 
The  aching  and  the  dazzled  eye 
Rests  gladdened,    on    the    calm    blue 
sky,  — 

Slumbers  the  mighty  wilderness  ! 
The  oak,  upon  the  windy  hill, 

Its     dark    green     burthen     upward 

heaves  — 

The  hemlock  broods  above  its  rill, 
Its  cone-like  foliage  darker  still, 

Against  the  birch's  graceful  stem, 
And  the  rough  walnut-bough  receives 
The  sun  upon  its  crowded  leaves, 

Each  colored  like  a  topaz  gem  ; 

And  the  tall  maple  wears  with  them 
The  coronal  which  autumn  gives, 

The  brief,  bright  sign  of  ruin  near, 

The  hectic  of  a  dying  year  ! 

The  hermit  priest,  who  lingers  now 
On  the  Bald  Mountain's  shrubless  brow, 
The  gray  and  thunder-smitten  pile 
Which  marks  afar  the  Desert  Isle,*3 
While  gazing  on  the  scene  below, 
May  half  forget  the  dreams  of  home, 
That     nightly    with     his     slumbers 

come,  — 

The  tranquil  skies  of  sunny  France, 
The  peasant's  harvest  song  and  dance, 
The  vines  around  the  hillsides  wreath 
ing 

The  soft  airs  midst  their  clusters  breath 
ing, 
The   wings   which    dipped,    the    stars 

which  shone 

Within  thy  bosom,  blue  Garonne  ! 
And  round  the  Abbey's  shadowed  wall, 
At  morning  spring  and  even-fall, 

Sweet  voices  in  the  still  air  singing,  — 
The  chant  of  many  a  holy  hymn,  — 

The  solemn  bell  of  vespers  ringing,  — 
And  hallowed  torch-light  falling  dim 

On  pictured  saint  and  seraphim  ! 
For  here  beneath  him  lies  unrolled, 
Bathed  deep  in  morning's  flood  pf  gold, 
A  vision  gorgeous  as  the  dream 
Of  the  beatified  may  seem, 


When,  as  his  Church's  legends  say, 
Borne  upward  in  ecstatic  bliss, 

The  rapt  enthusiast  soars  away 
Unto  a  brighter  world  than  this  : 
A  mortal's  glimpse  beyond  the  pale,  — 
A  moment's  lifting  of  the  veil  ! 

Far  eastward  o'er  the  lovely  bay, 
Penobscot's  clustered  wigwams  lay  ; 
And  gently  from  that  Indian  town 
The  verdant  hillside  slopes  adown, 
To  where  the  sparkling  waters  play 

Upon  the  yellow  sands  below  ; 
And  shooting  round  the  winding  shores 

Of  narrow  capes,  and  isles  which  lie 

Slumbering  to  ocean's  lullaby, — 
With  birchen  boat  ard  glancing  oars, 

The  red  men  to  their  fishing  go  ; 
While  from   their  planting  ground  is 

borne 

The  treasure  of  the  golden  corn, 
By  laughing  girls,  whose  dark  eyes  glow 
Wild  through  the  locks  which  o'er  them 

flow. 

The  wrinkled  squaw,  whose  toil  is  done, 
Sits  on  her  bear-skin  in  the  sun, 
Watching  the  huskers,  with  a  smile 
For  each  full  ear  which  swells  the  pile ; 
And  the  old  chief,  who  nevermore 
May  bend  the  bow  or  pull  the  oar, 
Smokes  gravely  in  his  wigwam  door, 
Or  slowly  shapes,  with  axe  of  stone, 
The  arrow-head  from  flint  and  bone. 

Beneath  the  westward  turning  eye 
A  thousand  wooded  islands  lie,  — 
Gems  of  the  waters  !  — with  each  hue 
Of  brightness  set  in  ocean's  blue. 
Each  bears  aloft  its  tuft  of  trees 

Touched  by  the  pencil  of  the  frost, 
And,  with. the  motion  of  each  breeze, 

A  moment  seen,  —  a  moment  lost,    - 

Changing  and  blent,    confused  and 
tossed, 

The  brighter  with  the  darker  crossed, 
Their  thousand  tints  of  beauty  glow 
Down  in  the  restless  waves  below, 

And  tremble  in  the  sunny  skies, 
As  if,  from  waving  bough  to  bough, 

Flitted  the  birds  of  paradise. 
There  sleep  Placentia's   group,  —  and 

there 

Pere  Breteaux  marks  thehour  of  prayer  ; 
And  there,  beneath  the  sea- worn  cliff, 


MOGG  ME  GONE. 


On  which  the  Father's  hut  is  seen, 
The  Indian  stays  his  rocking  skiff, 

And  peers  the  hemlock-boughs  be 
tween, 

Half  trembling,  as  he  seeks  to  look 
Upon  the  Jesuit's  Cross  and  Book.1* 
There,  gloomily  against  the  sky 
The  Dark  Isles  rear  their  summits  high; 
And  Desert  Rock,  abrupt  and  bare, 
Lifts  its  gray  turrets  in  the  air,  — 
Seen  from  afar,  like  some  stronghold 
Built  by  the  ocean  kings  of  old  ; 
And,  faint  as  smoke-wreath  white  and 

thin, 

Swells  in  the  north  vast  Katahdin  : 
And,  wandering  from  its  marshy  feet, 
The  broad  Penobscot  comes  to  meet 

And  mingle  with  his  own  bright  bay. 
Slow  sweep    his    dark   and   gathering 

floods, 

Arched  over  by  the  ancient  woods, 
Which  Time,  in  those  dim  solitudes, 

Wielding  the  dull  axe  of  Decay, 

Alone  hath  ever  shorn  away. 

Not  thus,  within  the  woods  which  hide 
The  beauty  of  thy  azure  tide, 

And  with  their  falling  timbers  block 
Thy  broken  currents,  Kennebec  ! 
Gazes  the  white  man  on  the  wreck 

Ofthe  down-trodden  Norridgewock, — 
In  one  lone  village  hemmed  at  length, 
In  battle  shorn  of  half  their  strength, 
Turned,  like  the  panther  in  his  lair, 

With  his  fast-flowing  life-blood  wet, 
For  one  last  struggle  of  despair, 

Wounded  and  faint,  but  tameless  yet! 
Unreaped,  upon  the  planting  lands, 
The  scant,  neglected  harvest  stands  : 

No  shout  is  there,  —  no  dance,  —  no 

song  : 

The  aspect  of  the  very  child 
Scowls  with  a  meaning  sad  and  wild 

Of  bitterness  and  wrong. 
The  almost  infant  Norridgewock 
Essays  to  lift  the  tomahawk  ; 
And  plucks  his  father's  knife  away, 
To  mimic,  in  his  frightful  play, 

The  scalping  of  an  English  foe  : 
Wreathes  on  his  lip  a  horrid  smile, 
Burns,  like   a  snake's,  his  small   eye, 
while 

Someboughorsaplingrneets his  blow. 
The  fisher,  as  he  drops  his  line, 


Starts,  when  he  sees  the  hazels  quiver 
Along  the  margin  of  the  river, 
Looks  up  and  down  the  rippling  tide, 
And  grasps  the  firelock  at  his  side. 
For  Bomazeen15  from  Tacconock 
Has  sent  his  runners  to  Norridgewock, 
With  tidings  that  Moulton  and  Harmon 
of  York 

Far  up  the  river  have  come  : 
They  have  left  their  boats,  —  they  have 

entered  the  wood, 
And  filled  the  depths  of  the  solitude 

With  the  sound  of  the  ranger's  drum. 

On  the  brow  of  a  hill,  which  slopes  to 

meet 

The  flowing  river,  and  bathe  its  feet,  — 
The  bare- washed  rock,  and  the  droop 
ing  grass, 
And  the  creeping  vine,  as  the  waters 

pass,  — 

A  rude  and  unshapely  chapel  stands, 
Builtup  in  that  wild  by  unskilled  hands; 
Yet  the  traveller  knows  it  a  place   of 

prayer, 

For  the  holy  sign  of  the  cross  is  there  : 
And  should  he  chance  at  that  place  to 

be, 
Of  a  Sabbath  morn,  or  some  hallowed 

day, 
When  prayers  are  made  and  masses  are 

said, 
Some  for  the  living  and  some  for  the 

dead, 

Well  might  that  traveller  start  to  see 
The  tall  dark  forms,  that  take  their 

way 

From  the  birch  canoe,  on  the  river-shore, 
And  the  forest  paths,  to  that  chapel 

door ; 

And  marvel  to  mark  the  naked  knees 
And   the    dusky   foreheads  bending 

there, 
While,    in   coarse  white  vesture,  over 

these 

In  blessing  or  in  prayer, 
Stretching  abroad  his  thin  pale  hands, 
Like   a   shrouded  ghost,   the   Jesuit18 

stands. 

Two  forms  are  now  in  that  chapel  dim, 
The  Jesuit,  silent  and  sad  and  pale. 
Anxiously  heeding,  some  fearful  tale4 

Which  a  stranger  is  telln.g  him. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


That  stranger's  garb  is  soiled  and  torn, 
And  wet  with  dew  and  loosely  worn  ; 
Her  fair  neglected  hair  falls  down 
O'er  cheeks  with  wind  and  sunshine 

brown  ; 

Yet  still,  in  that  disordered  face, 
The  Jesuit's  cautious  eye  can  trace 
Those  elements  of  former  grace 
Which,  half  effaced,  seem  scarcely  less, 
Even  now,  than  perfect  loveliness. 

With  drooping  head,  and  voice  so  low, 
That  scarce    it    meets  the   Jesuit's 
ears,  — 

While  through  her  clasped  fingers  flow, 

From  the  heart's  fountain,  hot  and  slow, 
Her  penitential  tears,  — 

She  tells  the  story  of  the  woe 
And  evil  of  her  years. 

"  O  father,  bear  with  me  ;  my  heart 
Is  sick  and  death-like,  and  my  brain 
Seems  girdled  with  a  fiery  chain, 

Whose  scorching  links  will  never  part, 
And  never  cool  again. 

Bear  with  me  while  I  speak,  —  but  turn 
Away  that  gentle  eye,  the  while,  — 

The  fires  of  guilt  more  fiercely  burn 
Beneath  its  holy  smile  ; 

For  half  I  fancy  I  can  see 

My  mother's  sainted  look  in  thee. 

"  My  dear  lost  mother  !  sad  and  pale, 

Mournfully  sinking  day  by  day, 
And  with  a  hold  on  life  as  frail 

As  frosted  leaves,  that,  thin  and  gray, 
Hang  feebly  on  their  parent  spray, 
And  tremble  in  the  gale  ; 
Yet  watching  o'er  my  childishness 
With  patient  fondness,  — not  the  less 
For  all  the  agony  which  kept 
Her  blue  eye  wakeful,  while  I  slept ; 
And  checking  every  tear  and  groan 
That  haply  might  have  waked  my  own, 
And  bearing  still,  without  offence, 
My  idle  words,  and  petulance  ; 

Reproving  with  a  tear,  —  and,  while 
The  tooth  of  pain  was  keenly  preying 
Upon  her  very  heart,  repaying 
My  brief  repentance  with  a  smile. 

"O.  in  her  meek,  forgiving  eye 
There  was  a  brightness  not  of  mirth, 

A  light  whose  clear  intensity 
Was  borrowed  not  of  earth. 


Along  her  cheek  a  deepening  red 
Told  where  the  feverish  hectic  fed  ; 

And  yet,  each  fatal  token  gave 
To  the  mild  beauty  of  her  face 
A  newer  and  a  dearer  grace, 

Unwarning  of  the  grave. 
'T  was  like  the  hue  which  Autumn  gives 
To  yonder  changed  and  dying  leaves, 

Breathed  over  by  his  frosty  breath  ; 
Scarce  can  the  gazer  feel  that  this 
Is  but  the  spoiler's  treacherous  kiss, 

The  mocking-smile  of  Death  ! 

"  Sweet  were  the  tales  she  used  to  tell 

When  summer's  eve  was  dear  to  us, 
And,  fading  from  the  darkening  dell, 
The  glory  of  the  sunset  fell 

On  wooded  Agamenticus,  — 
When,  sitting  by  our  cottage  wall, 
The  murmur  of  the  Saco's  fall, 

And  the  south-wind's  expiring  sighs 
Came,  softly  blending,  on  my  ear, 
With  the  low  tones  I  loved  to  hear : 

Tales  of  the  pure,  —  the  good,  —  the 

wise,  — 

The  holy  men  and  maids  of  old, 
In  the  all-sacred  pages  told  ;  — 
Of  Rachel,  stooped  at  Haran's  foun 
tains, 

Amid  her  father's  thirsty  flock, 
Beautiful  to  her  kinsman  seeming 
As  the  bright  angels  of  his  dreaming, 

On  Padan-aran's  holy  rock  ; 
Of  gentle  Ruth,  —  and  her  who  kept 

Her  awful  vigil  on  the  mountains, 
By  Israel's  virgin  daughters  wept ; 
Of  Miriam,  with  her  maidens,  singing 

The  song  for  grateful  Israel  meet, 
While  every  crimson  wave  was  bringing 

The  spoils  of  Egypt  at  her  feet ; 
Of  her,  —  Samaria's  humble  daughter, 

Who  paused  to  hear,  beside  her  well, 

Lessons  of  love  and  truth,  which  fell 
Softly  as  Shiloh's  flowing  water ; 

And  saw,  beneath  his  pilgrim  guise, 
The  Promised  One,  so  long  foretold 
By  holy  seer  and  bard  of  old, 

Revealed  before  her  wondering  eyes  I 

"  Slowly  she  faded.     Day  by  day 
Her  step  grew  weaker  in  our  hall, 
And  fainter,  at  each  even-fall, 

Her  sad  voice  died  away. 
Yet  on  her  thin,  pale  lip,  the  while. 
Sat  Resignation's  holy  smile  : 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


And  even  my  father  checked  his  tread, 
And  hushed  his  voice,  beside  her  bed  : 
Beneath  the  calm  and  sad  rebuke 
Of  her  meek  eye's  imploring  look, 
The  scowl  of  hate  his  brow  forsook, 

And  in  his  stern  and  gloomy  eye, 
At  times,  a  few  unwonted  tears 
Wet  the  dark  lashes,  which  for  years 

Hatred  and  pride  had  kept  so*  dry. 

"  Calm  as  a  child  to  slumber  soothed, 
As  if  an  angel's  hand  had  smoothed 

The  still,  white  features  into  rest, 
Silent  and  cold,  without  a  breath 

To  stir  the  drapery  on  her  breast, 
Pain,  with  its  keen  and  poisoned  fang, 
The  horror  of  the  mortal  pang, 
The  suffering  look  her  brow  had  worn, 
The  fear,  the  strife,  the  anguish  gone,  — 

She  slept  at  last  in  death  ! 

"O,  tell  me,  father,  can  the  dead 
Walk  on  the  earth,  and  look  on  us, 

And  lay  upon  the  living's  head 
Their  blessing  or  their  curse? 

For,  O,  last  night  she  stood  by  me, 

As  I  lay  beneath  the  woodland  tree  ! " 

The  Jesuit  crosses  himself  in  awe,  — 
"  Jesu  !  what  was  it  my  daughter  saw  ? " 

"  She  came  to  me  last  night. 

The   dried  leaves  did  not  feel  her 

tread  ; 
She  stood  by  me  in  the  wan  moonlight, 

In  the  white  robes  of  the  dead  ! 
Pale,  and  very  mournfully 
She  bent  her  light  form  over  me. 
I  heard  no  sound,  I  felt  no  breath 
Breathe  o'er  me  from  that  face  of  death  : 
Its  blue  eyes  rested  on  my  own, 
Rayless  and  cold  as  eyes  of  stone  ; 
Yet,  in  their  fixed,  unchanging  gaze, 
Something,  which  spoke  of  earlydays,  — 
A  sadness  in  their  quiet  glare, 
As  if  love's  smile  were  frozen  there,  — 
Came  o'er  me  with  an  icy  thrill  ; 
O  God  !  I  feel  its  presence  still  !  " 

The  Jesuit  makes  the  holy  sign,  — 
"  How    passed    the    vision,    daughter 
mine?" 

"  All  dimly  in  the  wan  moonshine, 
Ab  a  wreath  of  mist  will  twist  and  twine, 


And  scatter,  and  melt  into  the  light,  — 
So  scattering,  —  melting  on  my  sight, 

The  pale,  cold  vision  passed  ; 
But  those  sad  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine 

Mournfully  to  the  last." 

"  God  help  thee,  daughter,  tell  me  why 
That  spirit  passed  before  thine  eye  !  " 

"  Father,  I  know  not,  save  it  be 
That  deeds  of  mine  have  summoned 

her 

From  the  unbreathing  sepulchre, 
To  leave  her  last  rebuke  with  me. 
Ah,  woe  for  me  !  my  mother  died 
Just  at  the  moment  when  I  stood 
Close  on  the  verge  of  womanhood, 
A  child  in  everything  beside  ; 
And  when  my  wild  heart  needed  most 
Her  gentle  counsels,  they  were  lost. 

"  My  father  lived  a  stormy  life, 
Of  frequent  change  and  daily  strife  ; 
And,  —  God  forgive  him  !  left  his  child 
To  feel,  like  him,  a  freedom  wild  ; 
To  love  the  red  man's  dwelling-place, 

The  birch  boat  on  his  shaded  floods, 
The  wild  excitement  of  the  chase 

Sweeping  the  ancient  woods, 
The  camp-fire,  blazing  on  the  shore 

Of  the  still  lakes,  the  clear  stream, 
where 

The  idle  fisher  sets  his  wear, 
Or  angles  in  the  shade,  far  more 

Than  that  restraining  awe  I  felt 
Beneath  my  gentle  mother's  care, 

When  nightly  at  her  knee  I  knelt, 
With  childhood's  simple  prayer. 

"  There   came   a  change.     The  wild, 
glad  mood 

Of  unchecked  freedom  passed. 
Amid  the  ancient  solitude 
Of  unshorn  grass  and  waving  wood, 

And  waters  glancing  bright  and  fast, 
A  softened  voice  was  in  my  ear, 
Sweet  as  those  lulling  sounds  and  fine 
The  hunter  lifts  his  head  to  hear, 
Now  far  and  faint,  now  full  and  near  — 

The  murmur  of  the  wind-swept  pine. 
A  manly  form  was  ever  nigh, 
A  bold,  free  hunter,  with  an  eye 

Whose  dark,  keen  glance  had  power 

to  wake 
Both  fear  and  love, —to  awe  and  charm ; 


MOGG  ME  GONE. 


'T  was  as  the  wizard  rattlesnake, 
Whose  evil  glances  lure  to  harm  — 
Whose  cold  and  small  and  glittering 

eye, 

And  brilliant  coil,  and  changing  dye, 
Draw,  step  by  step,  the  gazer  near, 
With  drooping  wing  and  cry  of  fear, 
Yet  powerless  all  to  turn  away, 
A  conscious,  but  a  willing  prey  ! 

Fear,  doubt,  thought,  life  itself,  erelong 
Merged  in  one  feeling  deep  and  strong. 
Faded  the  world  which  I  had  known, 

A  poor  vain  shadow,  cold  and  waste  ; 
In  the  warm  present  bliss  alone 

Seemed  I  of  actual  life  to  taste. 
Fond  longings  dimly  understood, 
The  glow  of  passion's  quickening  blood, 
And  cherished  fantasies  which  press 
The  young  lip  with  a  dream's  caress,  — 
The  heart's  forecast  and  prophecy 
Took  form  and  life  before  my  eye, 
Seen  in  the  glance  which  met  my  own, 
Heard  in  the  soft  and  pleading  tone, 
Felt  in  the  arms  around  me  cast, 
And  warm  heart-pulses  beating  fast. 
Ah  !  scarcely  yet  to  God  above 
With  deeper  trust,  with  stronger  love 
Has  prayerful  saint  his  meek  heart  lent, 
Or  cloistered  nun  at  twilight  bent, 
Than  I,  before  a  human  shrine, 
As  mortal  and  as  frail  as  mine, 
With  heart,  and  soul,  and  mind,  and 

form, 
Knelt  madly  to  a  fellow-worm. 

"  Full  soon,  upon  that  dream  of  sin, 
An  awful  light  came  bursting  in. 
The  shrine  was  cold,  at  which  I  knelt 

The  idol  of  that  shrine  was  gone  ; 
A  humbled  thing  of  shame  and  guilt, 

Outcast,  and  spurned  and  lone, 
Wrapt  in  the  shadows  of  my  crime, 

With   withering   heart   and    burning 
brain, 

And  tears  that  fell  like  fiery  rain, 
I  passed  a  fearful  time. 

"  There  came  a  voice  —  it  checked  the 

tear  — 
In    heart    and    soul    it    wrought    a 

change ; — 

My  father's  voice  was  in  my  ear  ; 
It  whispered  of  revenge  ! 


A  new  and  fiercer  feeling  swept 
All  lingering  tenderness  away ; 

And  tiger  passions,  which  had  slept 
In  childhood's  better  day, 

Unknown,  unfelt,  arose  at  length 

In  all  their  own  demoniac  strength. 

"  A  youthful  warrior  of  the  wild, 
By  words  deceived,  by  smiles  beguiled, 
Of  crime  the  cheated  instrument, 
Upon  our  fatal  errands  went. 

Through  camp  and  town  and  wilder 
ness 

He  tracked  his  victim  ;  and,  at  last, 
Just  when  the  tide  of  hate  had  passed, 
And  milder  thoughts  came  warm  and 

fast, 
Exulting,  at  my  feet  he  cast 

The  bloody  token  of  success. 

"  O  God  !  with  what  an  awful  power 

I  saw  the  buried  past  uprise, 
And  gather,  in  a  single  hour, 

Its  ghost-like  memories  ! 
And  then  I  felt  —  alas  !  too  late  — 
That  underneath  the  mask  of  hate, 
That  shame  and  guilt  and  wrong  had 

thrown 
O'er  feelings  which  they  might  not  own, 

The  heart's  wild  love  had  known  no 

change  ; 

And  still,  that  deep  and  hidden  love, 
With  its  first  fondness,  wept  above 

The  victim  of  its  own  revenge  ! 
There  lay  the  fearful  scalp,  and  there 
The  blood  was  on  its  pale  brown  hair ! 
I  thought  not  of  the  victim's  scorn, 

I  thought  not  of  his  baleful  guile, 
My  deadly  wrong,  my  outcast  name, 
The  characters  of  sin  and  shame 
On  heart  and  forehead  drawn  ; 

I  only  saw  that  victim's  smile,  — 
The  still,  green  places  where  we  met,  — 
The  moonlit  branches,  dewy  wet ; 
I  only  felt,  I  only  heard 
The  greeting  and  the  parting  word, — 
The  smile,  —  the  embrace,  — the  tone, 

which  made 
An  Eden  of  the  forest  shade. 

"  And  oh,  with  what  a  loathing  eye, 
With  what  a  deadly  hate,  and  deep, 

I  saw  that  Indian  murderer  lie 
Before  me,  in  his  drunken  sleep  ! 


MOGG  ME  GONE. 


What  though  for  me  the  deed  was  done, 
And  words  of  mine  had  sped  him  on  ! 
Yet  when  he  murmured,  as  he  slept, 

The  horrors  of  that  deed  of  blood, 
The  tide  of  utter  madness  swept 

O'er  brain  and  bosom,  like  a  flood. 
And,  father,  with  this  hand  of  mine  —  " 

"  Ha  !  what  didst  them  ? "  the  Jesuit 

cries, 
Shuddering,  as  smitten  with  sudden  pain, 

And  shading,  with  one  thin  hand,  his 

eyes, 

With  the  other  he  makes  the  holysign. 
"  —  I  smote  him  as  I  would  a  worm  ;  — 
With  heart  as  steeled,  with  nerves  as 
firm : 

He  never  woke  again  ! " 

"  Woman  of  sin  and  blood  and  shame, 
Speak,  —  I  would  know  that  victim's 
name." 

"  Father,"   she  gasped,  "  a  chieftain, 

known 
As  Saco's  Sachem,  —  MOGGMEGONE  !" 

Pale   priest  !     What   proud   and   lofty 

dreams, 
What    keen    desires,    what    cherished 

schemes, 

What  hopes,  that  time  may  not  recall, 
Are  darkened  by  that  chieftain's  fall  ! 
Was  he  not  pledged,  by  cross  and  vow, 

To  lift  the  hatchet  of  his  sire, 
And,  round  his  own,  the  Church's  foe, 

To  light  the  avenging  fire  ? 
Who  now  the  Tarrantine  shall  wake, 
For  thine  and  for  the  Church's  sake? 

Who  summon  to  the  scene 
Of  conquest  and  unsparing  strife, 
And  vengeance  dearer  than  his  life, 

The  fiery-souled  Castine  ? 17 


Three     backward    steps    the     Jesuit 

takes,  — 
His  long,  thin  frame  as  ague  shakes ; 

And  loathing  hate  is  in  his  eye, 
As  from  his  lips  these  words  of  fear 
Fall  hoarsely  on  the  maiden's  ear,  — 
"  The  soul  that  sinneth  shall  surely 
die  !  " 

She  stands,  as  stands  the  stricken  deer, 
Checked  midway  in  the  fearful  chase, 
When  bursts,  upon  his  eye  and  ear, 
The  gaunt,  gray  robber,  baying  near, 
Between  him  and  his  hiding-place  ; 
While  still  behind,  with  yell  and  blow, 
Sweeps,  like  a  storm,  the  coming  foe. 
"  Save  me,  O  holy  man  !  "  —  her  cry 
Fills  all  the  void,  as  if  a  tongue, 
Unseen,  from  rib  and  rafter  hung, 
Thrilling  with  mortal  agony  ; 
Her   hands  are  clasping  the  Jesuit's 

knee, 
And  her  eye  looks  fearfully  into  his 

own  ;  — 
"  Off,  woman  of  sin  !  —  nay,  touch  not 

me 

With  those  fingers  of  blood  ;  —  be 
gone  !  " 
With  a  gesture  of  horror,  he  spurns  the 

form 

That  writhes  at  his  feet  like  a  trodden 
worm. 

Ever  thus  the  spirit  must, 
Guilty  in  the  sight  of  Heaven- 
With  a  keener  woe  be  riven, 

For  its  weak  and  sinful  trust 

In  the  strength  of  human  dust ; 
And  its  anguish  thrill  afresh, 

For  each  vain  reliance  given 
To  the  failing  arm  of  flesh. 


PART   III. 


AH,  weary  Priest !  —  with  pale  hands 
pressed 

On  thy  throbbing  brow  of  pain, 
Baffled  in  thy  life-long  quest, 

Overworn  with  toiling  vain, 
How  ill  thy  troubled  musings  fit 

The  holy  quiet  of  a  breast 

With  the  Dove  of  Peace  at  rest, 
Sweetly  brooding  over  it. 


Thoughts  are  thine  which  have  no  part 
With  the  meek  and  pure  of  heart, 
Undisturbed  by  outward  things, 
Resting  in  the  heavenly  shade, 
By  the  overspreading  wings 

Of  the  Blessed  Spirit  made. 
Thoughts  o.'strite  and  hate  and  wron£ 
Sweep  thy  Seated  brain  along,  — 
Fading  hojx-?  lor  whose  success 


i6 


MOGG  ME  GONE. 


It  were  sin  to  breathe  a  prayer ;  — 
Schemes    which  Heaven    may    never 

bless, — 

Fears  which  darken  to  despair. 
Hoary  priest !  thy  dream  is  done 
Of  a  hundred  red  tribes  won 

To  the  pale  of  Holy  Church  ; 
And  the  heretic  o'erthrown, 
And  his  name  no  longer  known, 
And  thy  weary  brethren  turning, 
Joyful  from  their  years  of  mourning, 
'Twixt  the  altar  and  the  porch. 
Hark  !  what  sudden  sound  is  heard 

In  the  wood  and  in  the  sky, 
Shriller  than  the  scream  of  bird,  — 

Than  the  trumpet's  clang  more  high  ! 
Every  wolf-cave  of  the  hills,  — 
Forest  arch  and  mountain  gorge, 
Rock  and  dell,  and  river  verge,  — 
With  an  answering  echo  thrills. 
Well  does  the  Jesuit  know  that  cry, 
Which  summons  the  Norridgewock  to 

die, 

And  tells  that  the  foe  of  his  flock  is  nigh. 
He  listens,  and  hears  the  rangers  come, 
With  loud  hurrah,  and  jar  of  drum, 
And  hurrying  feet  (for  the  chase  is  hot), 
And  the  short,  sharp  sound  of  rifle  shot, 
And  taunt  and  menace, — answered  well 
By  the  Indians'  mocking  cry  and  yell, — 
The  bark  of  dogs,  —  the  squaw's  mad 

scream,  — 

The  dash  of  paddles  along  thestream, — 
The  whistle  of  shot  as  it  cuts  the  leaves 
Of  the  maples  around  the  church's 

eaves,  — 
And    the    gride    of  hatchets,   fiercely 

thrown, 

On  wigwam-log  and  tree  and  stone. 
Black  with  the  grime  of  paint  and  dust, 
Spotted  and    streaked   with   human 

gore, 
A  grim  and  naked  head  is  thrust 

Within  the  chapel-door. 
"  Ha  —  Bomazeen  !  —  In  God's  name 

say, 
What  mean   these   sounds   of  bloody 

fray?" 
Silent,  the  Indian  points  his  hand 

To  where  across  the  echoing  glen 
Sweep  Harmon's  dreaded  ranger-band, 

And  Moulton  with  his  men. 
"  Where  are  thy  warriors,  Bomazeen  ? 
Where  are  De  Rouville18and  Castine, 


And    where    the    braves    of   Sawga's 

queen  ?" 

"  Let  my  father  find  the  winter  snow 
Which  the  sun  drank  up  long  moonsago ! 
Under  the  falls  of  Tacconock, 
The  wolves  are  eating  the  Norridge 
wock  ; 

Castine  with  his  wives  lies  closely  hid 
Like  a  fox  in  the  woods  of  Pemaquid  ! 
On  Sawga's  banks  the  man  of  war 
Sits  in  his  wigwam  like  a  squaw,  — 
Squando  has  fled,  and  Mogg  Megone, 
Struck  by  the  knife  of  Sagamore  John, 
Lies  stiff  and  stark  and  cold  as  a  stone." 

Fearfully  over  the  Jesuit's  face, 

Of  a   thousand  thoughts,    trace  after 

trace, 
Like  swift  cloud-shadows,  each  other 

chase. 

One  instant,  his  fingers  grasp  his  knife, 
For  a  last  vain  struggle  for  cherished 

life,  — 

The  next,  he  hurls  the  blade  away, 
And  kneels  at  his  altar's  foot  to  pray ; 
Over  his  beads  his  fingers  stray, 
And  he  kisses  the  cross,  and  calls  aloud 
On  the  Virgin  and  her  Son  ; 
For  terrible  thoughts  his  memory  crowd 

Of  evil  seen  and  done,  — 
Of  scalps  brought  home  by  his  savage 

flock 
From  Casco  and  Sawga  and  Sagada- 

hock, 
In  the  Church's  service  won. 

No  shrift  the  gloomy  savage  brooks, 
As  scowling  on  the  priest  he  looks  : 
"  Cowesass  —  cowesass  —  tawhich  wes- 

saseen  ?  w 

Let  my  father  look  upon  Bomazeen,  — 
My  father's  heart   is  the   heart  of  a 

squaw, 

But  mine  is  so  hard  that  it  doesnot  thaw : 
Let  my  father  ask  his  God  to  make 
A  dance  and  a  feast  for  a  great  saga 
more, 
When  he  paddles  across  the  western 

lake, 
With  his  dogs  and  his  squaws  to  the 

spirit's  shore. 
Cowesass  —  cowesass  —  tawhich  wes- 

saseen  ? 
Let  my  father  die  like  Bomazeen  !  " 


MOGG  ME  GONE. 


Through  the  chapel's  narrow  doors, 

And  through    each  window  in    the 

walls, 
Round  the  priest  and  warrior  pours 

The  deadly  shower  of  English  balls. 
Low  on  his  cross  the  Jesuit  falls  ; 
While  at  his  side  the  Norridgewock, 
With  failing  breath,  essays  to  mock 
And  menace  yet  the  hated  foe,  — 
Shakes  his  scalp-trophies  to  and  fro 

Exultingly  before  their  eyes,  — 
Till,  cleft  and  torn  by  shot  and  blow, 

Defiant  still,  he  dies. 

"  So  fare  air  eaters  of  the  frog  ! 
Death  to  the  Babylonish  dog  ! 

Down  with  the  beast  of  Rome  !  " 
With  shouts  like  these,  around  the  dead, 
Unconscious  on  his  bloody  bed, 

The  rangers  crowding  come. 
Brave  men  !  the  dead  priest  cannot  hear 
The  unfeeling  taunt,  —  thebrutaljeer; — 
Spurn  —  for  he  sees  ye  not  —  in  wrath, 
The  symbol  of  your  Saviour's  death  ; 

Tear   from  his  death-grasp,  in  your 

zeal, 

And  trample,  as  a  thing  accursed, 
The  cross  he  cherished  in  the  dust : 

The  dead  man  cannot  feel ! 

Brutal  alike  in  deed  and  word, 

With  callous  heart  and  hand  of  strife, 
How  like  a  fiend  may  man  be  made, 
Plying  the  foul  and  monstrous  trade 

Whose  harvest-field  is  human  life, 
Whose  sickle  is  the  reeking  sword  ! 
Quenching,  with  reckless  hand  in  blood, 
Sparks  kindled  by  the  breath  of  God ; 
Urging  the  deathless  soul,  unshriven, 

Of  open  guilt  or  secret  sin, 
Before  the  bar  of  that  pure  Heaven 

The  holy  only  enter  in  ! 
O,  by  the  widow's  sore  distress, 
The  orphan's  wailing  wretchedness, 
By  Virtue  struggling  in  the  accursed 
Embraces  of  polluting  Lust, 
By  the  fell  discord  of  the  Pit, 
And  the  pained  souls  that  people  it, 
And  by  the  blessed  peace  which  fills 

The  Paradise  of  God  forever, 
Resting  on  all  its  holy  hills, 

And  flowing  with  its  crystal  river,  — 
Let  Christian  hands  no  longer  bear 

In  triumph  on  his  crimson  car 


The  foul  and  idol  god  of  war  : 
No  more  the  purple  wreaths  prepare 
To  bind  amid  his  snaky  hair ; 
Nor  Christian  bards  his  glories  tell, 
Nor  Christian  tongues  his  praises  swell. 

Through    the    gun  -  smoke  wreathing 

white, 

Glimpses  on  the  soldiers'  sight 
A  thing  of  human  shape  I  ween, 
For  a  moment  only  soen, 
With  its  loose  hair  backward  streaming, 
And  its  eyeballs  madly  gleaming, 
Shrieking,  like  a  soul  in  pain, 

From  the  world  of  light  and  breath, 
Hurrying  to  its  place  again, 

Spectre-like  it  vanisheth  ! 

Wretched  girl  !  one  eye  alone 
Notes  the  way  which  tliou  hast  gone. 
That  great  Eye,  which  slumbers  never, 
Watching  o'er  a  lost  world  ever, 
Tracks  thee  over  vale  and  mountain, 
By  the  gushing  forest-fountain, 
Plucking  from  the  vine  its  fruit, 
Searching  for  the  ground-nut's  root, 
Peering  in  the  she-wolf's  den, 
Wading  through  the  marshy  fen, 
Where  the  sluggish  water-snake 
Basks  beside  the  sunny  brake, 
Coiling  in  his  slimy  bed, 
Smooth  and  cold  against  thy  tread,  — 
Purposeless,  thy  mazy  way 
Threading  through  the  lingering  day. 
And  at  night  securely  sleeping 
Where  the  dogwood'sdews  are  weeping ! 
Still,    though  earth   and   man  discard 

thee, 

Doth  thy  Heavenly  Father  guard  thee : 
He  who  spared  the  guilty  Cain, 

Even  when  a  brother's  blood, 

Crying  in  the  ear  of  God, 
Gave  the  earth  its  primal  stain,  — 
He  whose  mercy  ever  liveth, 
Who  repenting  guilt  forgiveth, 
And  the  broken  heart  receiveth,  — 
Wanderer  of  the  wilderness, 

Haunted,  guilty,  crazed,  and  wild, 
He  regarded!  thy  distress, 

And  careth  for  his  sinful  child  ! 


'Tis  spring-time  on  the  eastern  hills  J 
Like  torrents  gush  the  summer  rills  ; 


z8 


MOGG  ME  GONE. 


Through  winter's  moss  and  dry  dead 

leaves 

The  bladed  grass  revives  and  lives, 
Pushes  the  mouldering  waste  away, 
And  glimpses  to  the  April  day. 
In  kindly  shower  and  sunshine  bud 
The  branches  of  the  dull  gray  wood  ; 
Out    from    its  sunned  and    sheltered 

nooks 

The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks  ; 
The  southwest  wind  is  warmly  blow 
ing. 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  pine-tree  and  the  sassafras, 
Are  with  it  on  its  errands  going. 

A  band  is  marching  through  the  wood 
Where  rolls  the  Kennebec  his  flood,  — 
The  warriors  of  the  wilderness, 
Painted,  and  in  their  battle  dress  ; 
And  with   them  one  whose    bearded 

cheek, 
And  white  and  wrinkled  brow,  bespeak 

A    wanderer    from    the    shores    of 

France. 

A  few  long  locks  of  scattering  snow 
Beneath  a  battered  morion  flow, 
And  from  the  rivets  of  the  vest 
Which  girds  in  steel  his  ample  breast, 

The  slanted  sunbeams  glance. 
In  the  harsh  outlines  of  his  face 
Passion  and  sin  have  left  their  trace  ; 
Yet,   save  worn  brow  and  thin  gray 

hair, 
No  signs  of  weary  age  are  there. 

His  step  is  firm,  his  eye  is  keen, 
Nor  years  in  broil  and  battle  spent, 
Nor  toil,  nor  wounds,  nor  pain  have  bent 

The  lordly  frame  of  old  Castine. 

No  purpose  now  of  strife  and  blood 

Urges  the  hoary  veteran  on  : 
The  fire  of  conquest,  and  the  mood 

Of  chivalry  have  gone. 
A  mournful  task  is  his,  —  to  lay 

Within  the  earth  the  bones  of  those 
Who  perished  in  that  fearful  day, 
When  Norridgewock  became  the  prey 

Of  all  unsparing  foes. 
Sadly  and  still,  dark  thoughts  between, 
Of  coming  vengeance  mused  Castine, 
Of  the  fallen  chieftain  Bomazeen, 
Who  bade  for  him  the  Norridgevvocks 
Dig  up  their  buried  tomahawks 


For  firm  defence  or  swift  attack ; 
And  him  whose  friendship  formed  the 

tie 

Which  held  the  stern  self-exile  back 
From  lapsing  into  savagery  ; 
Whose  garb  and  tone  and  kindly  glance 
Recalled  a  younger,  happier  day, 
And  prompted  memory's  fond  essay, 
To  bridge  the  mighty  waste  which  lay 
Between  his  wild  home  and  that  gray, 
Tall  chateau  of  his  native  France, 
Whose  chapel  bell,  with  far-heard  din 
Ushered  his  birth-hour  gayly  in, 
And  counted  with  its  solemn  toll 
The  masses  for  his  father's  soul. 

Hark  !  from  the  foremost  of  the  band 

Suddenly  bursts  the  Indian  yell  ; 
For  now  on  the  very  spot  they  stand 
Where  the   Norridgewocks  fighting 

fell. 

No  wigwam  smoke  is  curling  there  ; 
The  very  earth  is  scorched  and  bare  : 
And  they  pause  and  listen  to  catch  a 

sound 
Of  breathing  life,  —  but  there  comes 

not  one, 
Save  the  fox's  bark  and  the  rabbit's 

bound  ; 
But  here  and  there,  on  the  blackened 

ground, 

White  bones  are  glistening  in  the  sun. 
And  where  the  house  of  prayer  arose, 
And  the  holy  hymn,  at  daylight's  close, 
And  the  aged  priest  stood  up  to  bless 
The  children  of  the  wilderness, 
There  is  naught  save  ashes  sodden  and 

dank  ; 

And  the  birchen  boats  of  the   Nor 
ridgewock, 

Tethered  to  tree  and  stump  and  rock, 
Rotting  along  the  river  bank  ! 

Blessed  Mary  !  who  is  she 
Leaning  against  that  maple-tree  ? 
The  sun  upon  her  face  burns  hot, 
But  the  fixed  eyelid  moveth  not  ; 
The  squirrel's  chirp  is  shrill  and  clear 
P'rom  the  dry  bough  above  her  ear ; 
Dashing  from  rock  and  root  its  spray, 

Close  at  her  feet  the  river  rushes  ; 

The   blackbird's  wing    against    her 
brushes, 

And  sweetly  through  the  hazel-bushes 


MOGG  ME  GONE. 


The  robin's  mellow  music  gushes ;  — 
God  save  her !  will  she  sleep  alway  ? 

Castine  hath  bent  him  over  the  sleeper : 
' '  Wake,  daughter,  —  wake  !  "  —  but 

she  stirs  no  limb  : 
'I  he  eye  that  looks  on  him  is  fixed 

and  dim  j 


And  the  sleep  she  is  sleeping  shall  be 

no  deeper, 

Until  the  angel's  oath  is  said, 
And  the  final  blast  of  the  trump  goes 

forth 
To  the  graves  of  the  sea  and  the  graves 

of  earth. 
RUTH  BONYTHON  IS  DEAD  1 


THE   BRIDAL  OF   PENNACOOK. 

1848. 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK." 


WE  had  been  wandering  for  many  days 

Through  the  rough  northern  country. 
We  had  seen 

The  sunset,  with  its  bars  of  purple 
cloud, 

Like  a  new  heaven,  shine  upward  from 
the  lake 

Of  Winnepiseogee  ;  and  had  felt 

The  sunrise  breezes,  midst  theleafyisles 

Which  stoop  their  summer  beauty  to 
the  lips 

Of  the  bright  waters.  We  had  checked 
our  steeds, 

Silent  with  wonder,  where  the  moun 
tain  wall 

Is  piled  to  heaven  ;  and,  through  the 
narrow  rift 

Of  the  vast  rocks,  against  whose  rugged 
feet 

Beats  the  mad  torrent  with  perpetual 
roar, 

Where  noonday  is  as  twilight,  and  the 
wind 

Comes  burdened  with  the  everlasting 
moan 

Of  forests  and  of  far-off  waterfalls, 

We  had  looked  upward  where  the  sum 
mer  sky, 

Tasselled  with  clouds  light-woven  by 
the  sun, 

Sprung  its  blue  arch  above  the  abut 
ting  crags 

O'er-roofing  the  vast  portal  of  the  land 

Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains.  We 
had  passed 

The  high  source  of  the  Saco  ;  and  be 
wildered 

In  the  dwarf  spruce-belts  of  the  Crystal 
Hills, 

Had  heard  above  us,  like  a  voice  in  the 
cloud, 

The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding  ;  and 
atop 


Of  old  Agioochook  had  seen  the  moun 
tains 

Piled  to  the  northward,  shagged  with 
wood,  and  thick 

As  meadow  mole-hills,  —  the  far  sea  of 
Casco, 

A  white  gleam  on  the  horizon  of  the 
east  ; 

Fair  lakes,  embosomed  in  the  woods 
and  hills ; 

Moosehillock's  mountain  range,  and 
Kearsarge 

Lifting  his  Titan  forehead  to  the  sun  ! 

And  we  had  rested  underneath  the  oaks 
Shadowing    the  bank,    whose    grassy 

spires  are  shaken 

By  the  perpetual  beating  of  the  falls 
Of  the  wild  Ammonoosuc.     We   had 

tracked 

The  winding  Pemigewasset,  overhung 
By  beechen  shadows,  whitening  down 

its  rocks, 

Or  lazily  gliding  through  its  intervals, 
From  waving  rye-fields  sending  up  the 

gleam 
Of  sunlit  waters.     We  had  seen  the 

moon 

Rising  behind  Umbagog'seastern  pines, 
Like  a  great  Indian  camp-fire  ;  and  its 

beams 
At  midnight  spanning  with  a  bridge  of 

silver 
The  Merrimack  by  Uncanoonuc's  falls. 

There  were  five  souls  of  us  whom  trav 
el's  chance 
Had    thrown    together  in  these  wild 

north  hills  :  — 

A  city  lawyer,  for  a  month  escaping 
From  his  dull  office,  where  the  weary  eye 
Saw  only  hot  brick   walls  and  close 
thronged  streets,  — 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


Briefless  as  yet,  but  with  an  eye  to  see 

Life's  sunniest  side,  and  with  a  heart  to 
take 

Its  chances  all  as  godsends ;  and  his 
brother, 

Pale  from  long  pulpit  studies,  yet  re 
taining 

The  warmth  and  freshness  of  a  genial 
heart, 

Whose  mirror  of  the  beautiful  and  true, 

In  Man  and  Nature,  was  as  yet  un- 
dimmed 

By  dust  of  theologic  strife,  or  breath 

Of  sect,  or  cobwebs  of  scholastic  lore  ; 

Like  a  clear  crystal  calm  of  water,  taking 

The  hue  and  image  of  o'erleaning  flow 
ers, 

Sweet  human  faces,  white  clouds  of  the 
noon, 

Slant  starlight  glimpses  through  the 
dewy  leaves, 

And  tenderest  moonrise.  'T  was,  in 
truth,  a  study, 

To  mark  his  spirit,  alternating  between 

A  decent  and  professional  gravity 

And  an  irreverent  mirthfulness,  which 
often 

Laughed  in  the  face  of  his  divinity, 

Plucked  off  the  sacred  ephod,  quite 
unshrined 

The  oracle,  and  for  the  pattern  priest 

Left  us  the  man.  A  shrewd,  sagacious 
merchant, 

To  whom  the  soiled  sheet  found  in 
Crawford's  inn, 

Giving  the  latest  news  of  city  stocks 

And  sales  of  cotton,  had  a  deeper  mean 
ing 

Than  the  great  presence  of  the  awful 
mountains 

Glorified  by  the  sunset ;  —  and  his 
daughter 

A  delicate  flower  on  whom  had  blown 
too  long 

Those  evil  winds,  which,  sweeping 
from  the  ice 

And  winnowing  the  fogs  of  Labrador, 

Shed  their  cold  blight  round  Massa 
chusetts  Bay, 

With  the  same  breath  which  stirs 
Spring's  opening  leaves 

And  lifts  her  half-formed  flower-bell  on 
its  stem, 

Poisoning  our  seaside  atmosphere. 


It  chanced 
That  as  we  turned  upon  our  homeward 

way, 

A  drear  northeastern  storm  came  howl 
ing  up 

The  valley  of  the  Saco  ;  and  that  girl 
Who  had  stood  with  us  upon  Mount 

Washington, 
Her  brown  locks  ruffled  by  the  wind 

which  whirled 

In  gusts  around  its  sharp  cold  pinnacle. 
Who  had  joined  our  gay  trout-fishing 

in  the  streams 
Which  lave  that  giant's  feet ;  whose 

laugh  was  heard 

Like  a  bird's  carol  on  the  sunrise  breeze 
Which    swelled    our    sail    amidst  the 

lake's  green  islands, 
Shrank  from  its  harsh,  chill  breath,  and 

visibly  drooped 
Like  a  flower  in  the  frost.     So,  in  that 

quiet  inn 
Which    looks    from    Conway    on    the 

mountains  piled 

Heavilyagainst  the  horizon  of  the  north, 
Like  summer  thunder- clouds,  we  made 

our  home : 
And  while  the  mist  hung  over  dripping 

hills, 
And  the  cold  wind-driven   rain-drops 

all  day  long 

Beat  their  sad  music  upon  roof  and  pane, 
We  strove  to  cheer  our  gentle  invalid. 

The  lawyer  in  the  pauses  of  the  storm 
Went  angling  down  the  Saco,  and,  re 
turning, 

Recounted  his  adventures  and  mishaps; 
Gave  us  the  history  of  his  scaly  clients, 
Minglingwith  ludicrous  yet  apt  citations 
Of  barbarous  law  Latin,  passages 
From  Izaak  Walton's  Angler,  sweet  and 

fresh 

As  the  flower-skirted  streams  of  Staf 
fordshire, 
Where,  under  aged  trees,  the  southwest 

wind 
Of  soft  June  mornings  fanned  the  thin, 

white  hair 

Of  the  sage  fisher.   And,  if  truth  be  told, 
Our  youthful  candidate  forsook  his  ser 
mons, 

His  commentaries,  articles  and  creeds, 
For  the  fair  page  of  human  loveliness,  — > 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


The  missal  of  young  hearts,  whose  sa 
cred  text 

Is  music,  its  illumining  sweet  smiles. 
He  sang  the  songs  she  loved ;  and  in 

his  low, 

Deep,  earnest  voice,  recitedmany  apage 
Of  poetry,  — the  honest,  tenderest  lines 
Of  the  sad  bard  of  Olney,  —  the  sweet 


Simple  and  beautiful  as  Truth  and  Na 
ture, 
Of  him  whose  whitened  locks  on  Rydal 

Mount 

Are  lifted  yet  by  morning  breezes  blow 
ing 
From  the  green  hills,  immortal  in  his 

lays. 

And  for  myself,  obedient  to  her  wish, 
I  searched  our  landlord's  proffered  li 
brary,  — 
A  well-thumbed  Bunyan,  with  its  nice 

wood  pictures 
Of  scaly  fiends  and  angels  not  unlike 

them,  — 

Watts'  unmelodious  psalms, — Astrol 
ogy's 

Last  home,  a  musty  pile  of  almanacs, 
And  an  old  chronicle  of  border  wars 
And  Indian  history.     And,  as  I  read 
A  story  of  the  marriage  of  the  Chief 
Of  Saugus  to  the  dusky  Weetamoo, 
Daughter  of  Passaconaway,  who  dwelt 
In  the  old  time  upon  the  Merrimack, 
Our  fair  one.  in  the  playful  exercise 
Of.her  prerogative,  —  the  right  divine 
Of  youth  ar.d  beauty,  —  bade  us  versify 
The    legend,    and  with    ready    pencil 

sketched 

Its  plan   and   outlines,  laughingly  as 
signing 

To  each  his  part,  and  barring  our  excuses 
With  absolute  will.     So,  like  the  cava 
liers 

Whose  voices  still  are  heard  in  the  Ro 
mance 
Of  silver-tongued   Boccaccio,   on  the 

banks 

Of  Arno,  with  soft  tales  of  love  beguiling 
The  ear  of  languid  beauty,  plague-exiled 
From  stately  Florence,  we  rehearsed 

pur  rhymes 

To  their  fair  auditor,  and  shared  by  turns 
Her  kind  approval  and  her  playful  cen 
sure. 


It  may  be  that  these  fragments  owe 
alone 

To  the  fair  setting  of  their  circumstan 
ces,  — 

The  associations  of  time,  scene,  and 
audience,  — 

Their  place  amid  the  pictures  which 
fill  up 

The  chambers  of  my  memory.  Yet  I 
trust 

That  some,  who  sigh,  while  wandering 
in  thought, 

Pilgrims  of  Romance  o'er  the  olden 
world, 

That  our  broad  land,  —  our  sea-like 
lakes  and  mountains 

Piled  to  the  clouds,  —  our  rivers  over 
hung 

By  forests  which  have  known  no  other 
change 

For  ages,  than  the  budding  and  the 

Of  leaves,  —  our  valleys  lovelier  than 

those 
Which  the  old  poets  sang  of,  —  should 

but  figure 

On  the  apocryphal  chart  of  speculation 
As  pastures,  wood-lots,  mill-sites,  with 

the  privileges, 
Rights,  and  appurtenances,  which  make 

up 

A    Yankee    Paradise,  —  unsung,    un 
known, 
To    beautiful    tradition ;     even    their 

names, 

Whose  melody  yet  lingers  like  the  last 
Vibration  of  the  red  man's  requiem, 
Exchanged  for  syllables  significant 
Of  cotton-mill  and  rail-car,  will    look 

kindly 

Upon  this  effort  to  call  up  the  ghost 
Of  our  dim  Past,  and  listen  with  pleased 

ear 
To   the   responses  of  the   questioned 

Shade. 


I.     THE  MERRIMACK. 

O  CHILD  of  that  white-crested  moun 
tain  whose  springs 

Gush  forth  in  the  shade  of  the  cliff- 
eagle's  wings, 


26 


THE   BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


Down  whose  slopes  to  the  lowlands  thy 

wild  waters  shine, 
Leaping  gray  walls   of  rock,  flashing 

through  the  dwarf  pine. 

From   that   cloud-curtained   cradle   so 

cold  and  so  lone, 
From  the  arms  of  that  wintry-locked 

mother  of  stone, 
By   hills    hung  with    forests,    through 

vales  wide  and  free, 
Thy  mountain-born  brightness  glanced 

down  to  the  sea  ! 

No  bridge  arched  thy  waters  save  that 

where  the  trees 
Stretched  their  long  arms  above  thee 

and  kissed  in  the  breeze  : 
No  sound  save  the  lapse  of  the  waves 

on  thy  shores, 
The  plunging  of  otters,  the  light  dip  of 

oars. 

Green-tufted,   oak-shaded,   by    Amos- 

keag's  fall 
Thy  twin  Uncanoonucs  rose  stately  and 

tall, 
Thy  Nashua  meadows  lay  green  and 

unshorn, 
And  the  hills   of  Pentucket  were  tas- 

selled  with  corn. 

But  thy  Pennacook  valley  was  fairer 
than  these, 

And  greener  its  grasses  and  taller  its 
trees, 

Ere  the  sound  of  an  axe  in  the  forest 
had  rung, 

Or  the  mower  his  scythe  in  the  mead 
ows  had  swung. 

In  their  sheltered  repose  looking  out 
from  the  wood 

The  bark-builded  wigwams  of  Penna 
cook  stood, 

There  glided  the  corn-dance,  the  coun 
cil-fire  shone, 

And  against  the  redwar-postthe  hatchet 
was  thrown. 

There  the  old  smoked  in  silence  their 

pipes,  and  the  young 
To  the  pike  and  the  white-perch  their 

baited  lines  flun? : 


There  the  boy  shaped  his  arrows,  and 

there  the  shy  maid 
Wove    her    many-hued    baskets    and 

bright  wampum  braid. 

O  Stream  of  the  Mountains  !  if  answer 

of  thine 
Could  rise  from  thy  waters  to  question 

of  mine, 
Methinks    through    the    din    of    thy 

thronged  banks  a  moan 
Of  sorrow   would   swell   for  the   days 

which  have  gone. 

Not  for  thee  the  dull  jar  of  the  loom 

and  the  wheel, 
The  gliding  of  shuttles,  the  ringing  of 

steel ; 
But  that  old  voice  of  waters,  of  bird  and 

of  breeze, 
The  dip  of  the  wild-fowl,  the  rustling 

of  trees  ! 


II.    THE  BASHABA.21 

LIFT  we  the  twilight  curtains  of  the 

Past, 
And,  turning  from  familiar  sight  and 

sound, 

Sadly  and  full  of  reverence  let  us  cast 
A  glance  upon  Tradition's  shadowy 

ground, 

Led  by  the  few  pale  lights  which,  glim 
mering  round 
That  dim,  strange  land  of  Eld,  seem 

dying  fast ; 
And  that  which  history  gives  not  to  the 

eye, 

The  faded  coloring  of  Time's  tapestry, 
Let   Fancy,    with    her    dream-dipped 

brush  supply. 

Roof  of  bark  and  walls  of  pine, 
Through  whose  chinks  the  sunbeams 

shine, 
Tracing  many  a  golden  line 

On  the  ample  floor  within  ; 
Where  upon  that  earth-floor  stark, 
Lay  the  gaudy  mats  of  bark, 
With  the  bear's  hide,  rough  and  dark, 

And  the  red-deer's  skin. 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


Window-tracery,  small  and  slight, 
Woven  of  the  willow  white, 
Lent  a  dimly  checkered  light, 

And  the  night-stars  glimmered  down, 
Where  the  lodge-fire's  heavy  smoke, 
Slowly  through  an  opening  broke, 
In  the  low  roof,  ribbed  with  oak, 

Sheathed  with  hemlock  brown. 

Gloomed  behind  the  changeless  shade, 
By  the  solemn  pine-wood  made  ; 
Through  the  rugged  palisade, 

In  the  open  foreground  planted, 
Glimpses  came  of  rowers  rowing, 
Stir  of  leaves  and  wild-flowers  blowing, 
Steel-like  gleams  of  water  flowing, 

In  the  sunlight  slanted. 

Here  the  mighty  Bashaba, 

Held  his  long-unquestioned  sway, 

From  the  White  Hills,  far  away, 

To  the  great  sea's  sounding  shore ; 
Chief  of  chiefs,  his  regal  word 
All  the  river  Sachems  heard, 
At  his  call  the  war-dance  stirred, 

Or  was  still  once  more. 

There  his  spoils  of  chase  and  war, 
Jaw  of  wolf  and  black  bear's  paw, 
Panther's  skin  and  eagle's  claw, 

Lay  beside  his  axe  and  bow  ; 
And,  adown  the  roof-pole  hung, 
Loosely  on  a  snake-skin  strung, 
In  the  smoke  his  scalp-locks  swung 

Grimly  to  and  fro. 

Nightly  down  the  river  going, 
Swifter  was  the  hunter's  rowing, 
When  he  saw  that  lodge-fire  glowing 

O'er  the  waters  still  and  red  ; 
And  the  squaw's  dark  eye  burned 

brighter, 

And  she  drew  her  blanket  tighter, 
As,  with  quicker  step  and  lighter, 

From  that  door  she  fled. 

For  that  chief  had  magic  skill, 
And  a  Panisee's  dark  will, 
Over  powers  of  good  and  ill, 

Powers  which  bless  and  powers  which 

ban,  — 

Wizard  lord  of  Pennacook, 
Chiefs  upon  their  war-path  shook, 
When  they  met  the  steady  look 

Of  that  wise  dark  man. 


Tales  of  him  the  gray  squaw  told, 
When  the  winter  night-wind  cold 
Pierced  her  blanket's  thickest  fold, 

And  the  fire  burned  low  and  small, 
Till  the  very  child  abed, 
Drew  its  bear-skin  over  head, 
Shrinking  from  the  pale  lights  shed 

On  the  trembling  wall. 

All  the  subtle  spirits  hiding 
Under  earth  or  wave,  abiding 
In  the  cavern ed  rock,  or  riding 

Misty  clouds  or  morning  breeze  ; 
Every  dark  intelligence, 
Secret  soul,  and  influence 
Of  all  things  which  outward  sense 

Feels,  or  hears,  or  sees,  — 

These  the  wizard's  skill  confessed, 
At  his  bidding  banned  or  blessed, 
Stormful  woke  or  lulled  to  rest 

Wind  and  cloud,  and  fire  and  flood  ; 
Burned  for  him  the  drifted  snow, 
Bade  through  ice  fresh  lilies  blow, 
And  the  leaves  of  summer  grow 

Over  winter's  wood  I 

Not  untrue  that  tale  of  old  ! 
Now,  as  then,  the  wise  and  bold 
All  the  powers  of  Nature  hold 

Subject  to  their  kingly  will ; 
From  the  wondering  crowds  ashore, 
Treading  life's  wild  waters  o'er, 
As  upon  a  marble  floor, 

Moves  the  strong  man  still. 

Still,  to  such,  life's  elements 
With  their  sterner  laws  dispense, 
And  the  chain  of  consequence 

Broken  in  their  pathway  lies  ; 
Time  and  change  their  vassals  making, 
Flowers  from  icy  pillows  waking, 
Tresses  of  the  sunrise  shaking 

Over  midnight  skies. 

Still,  to  earnest  souls,  the  sun 
Rests  on  towered  Gibeon, 
And  the  moon  of  Ajalon 

Lights  the  battle-grounds  of  life  ; 
To  his  aid  the  strong  reverses 
Hidden  powers  and  giant  forces, 
And  the  high  stars,  in  their  courses, 

Mingle  in  his  strife  ! 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


III.     THE   DAUGHTER. 

THE  soot-black  brows  of  men,  —  the 

yell 
Of  women   thronging    round    the 

bed, — 

The  tinkling  charm  of  ringand  shell, — 
The   Powah  whispering  o'er    the 

dead  !  — 
All  these  the   Sachem's  home  had 

known, 

When,  on  her  journey  long  and  wild 
To  the  dim  World  of  Souls,  alone, 
In  her  young  beauty  passed  the  mother 
of  his  child. 

Three  bow-shots  from  the  Sachem's 

dwelling 

They  laid  her  in  the  walnut  shade, 

Where  a  green  hillock  gently  swelling 

Her  fitting  mound  of  burial  made. 

There  trailed  the  vine  in  summer 

hours, 
The  tree-perched  squirrel  dropped 

his  shell,  — 

On  velvet  moss  and  pale-hued  flowers, 
Woven  with  leaf  and  spray,  the  softened 
sunshine  fell ! 

The  Indian's  heart  is  hard  and  cold, — 

It  closes  darkly  o'er  its  care, 
And    formed    in    Nature's    sternest 

mould, 

Is  slow  to  feel,  and  strong  to  bear. 

The  war-paint  on  the  Sachem's  face, 

Unwet  with  tears,  shone  fierce  and 

red, 

And,  still  in  battle  or  in  chase, 
Dry  leaf  and  snow-rime  crisped  beneath 
his  foremost  tread. 

Yet  when  her  name  was  heard  no 

more, 

And  when  the  robe  her  mother  gave, 

And  small,  light  moccasin  she  wore, 

Had  slowly  wasted  on  her  grave, 

Unmarked  of  him  the  dark  maids  sped 

Their  sunset   dance   and   moonlit 

play  ; 

No  other  shared  his  lonely  bed, 
No  other  fair  young  head  upon  his  bo 
som  lay. 

A  lone,  stern  man.   Yet,  as  sometimes 
The  tempest-smitten  tree  receives 


From  one  small  root  the  sap  which 

climbs 
Its  topmost  spray  and   crowning 

leaves, 

So  from  his  child  the  Sachem  drew 
A  life  of  Love  and  Hope,  and  felt 
His  cold  and  rugged  nature  through 
The  softness  and  the  warmth  of  her 
young  being  melt. 

A  laugh  which  in  the  woodland  rang 

Bemocking  April'sgladdest  bird,  — 

A  light  and  graceful  form  which  sprang 

To  meet  him  when  his  step  was 

heard,  — 

Eyes  by  his  lodge-fire  flashing  dark, 
Small  fingers  stringing  bead  and 

shell 
Or    weaving     mats  of   bright-hued 

bark,  — 

With  these   the  household-god22  had 
graced  his  wigwam  well. 

Child  of  the  forest !  —  strong  and  free, 
Slight-robed,  with  loosely  flowing 

hair, 
She  swam  the  lake  or  climbedthetree, 

Or  struck  the  flying  bird  in  air. 
O'er  the  heaped  drifts  of  winter's 

moon 

Her  snow-shoes  tracked  the  hun 
ter's  way  ; 

And  dazzling  in  the  summer  noon 
The  blade  of  her  light  oar  threw  off  its 
shower  of  spray ! 

Unknown  to  her  the  rigid  rule, 
The    dull    restraint,   the    chiding 

frown, 
The  weary  torture  of  the  school, 

The  taming  of  wild  nature  down. 
Her  only  lore,  the  legends  told 

Around  the  hunter's  fire  at  night ; 
Stars  rose  and  set,  and  seasons  rolled, 
Flowers  bloomed  and  snow-flakes  fell, 
unquestioned  in  her  sight. 

Unknown  to  her  the  subtle  skill 
With  which  the  artist-eye  can  trace 

In  rock  and  tree  and  lake  and  hill 
The  outlines  of  divinest  grace  ; 

Unknown  the  fine  soul's  keen  unrest, 
Which  sees,  admires,   yet  yearns 
alway ; 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


Too  closely  on  her  mother's  breast 
To  note  her  smiles  of  love  the  child  of 
Nature  lay  ! 

It  is  enough  for  such  to  be 

Of  common,  natural  things  a  part, 

To  feel,  with  bird  and  stream  and  tree, 

The  pulses  of  the  same  great  heart ; 

But  we,  from  Nature  long  exiled 

In  our  cold  homes  of   Art    and 

Thought, 

Grieve  like  the  stranger-tended  child, 

Which   seeks  its  mother's  arms,  and 

sees  but  feels  them  not. 

The  garden  rose  may  richly  bloom 

In  cultured  soil  and  genial  air, 
To  cloud  the  light  of  Fashion's  room 
Or  droop  in  Beauty's  midnight  hair, 
In  lonelier  grace,  to  sun  and  dew 
The    sweetbrier    on    the    hillside 

shows 

Its  single  leaf  and  fainter  hue, 
Untrained  and  wildly  free,  yet  still  a 
sister  rose ! 

Thus  o'er  the  heart  of  Weetamoo 
Their  mingling  shades  of  joy  and 

ill 
The  instincts  of  her  nature  threw,  — 

The  savage  was  a  woman  still. 
Midst  outlines  dim  of  maiden  schemes, 

Heart-colored  prophecies  of  life, 
Rose   on   the  ground  of  her  young 

dreams 

The  light  of  a  new  home, — the  lover 
and  the  wife. 


IV.     THE  WEDDING. 

COOL  and  dark  fell  the  autumn  night, 
But  the  Bashaba's  wigwam  glowed  with 

light, 
For  down  from  its  roof  by  green  withes 

hung 
Flaring   and  smoking  the  pine-knots 

swung. 

And  along  the  river  great  wood-fires 
Shot  into  the  night  their  long  red  spires, 
Showing  behind  the  tall,  dark  wood, 
Flashing  before  on  the  sweeping  flood. 


In  the  changeful  wind,  with  shimmer 

and  shade, 
Now    high,    now    low,    that    firelight 

played, 

On  tree-leaves  wet  with  evening  dews, 
On  gliding  water  and  still  canoes. 

Thetrapper  that  night  on  Turee's  brook, 
And  the  weary  fisher  on  Contoocook, 
Saw  over  the  marshes  and  through  the 

pine, 
And  down  on  the  river  the  dance-lights 

shine. 

For  the  Saugus  Sachem  had  come  to 

woo 

The  Bashaba's  daughter  Weetamoo, 
And  laid  at  her  father's  feet  that  night 
His  softest  furs  and  wampum  white. 

From   the    Crystal    Hills   to  the    far 

southeast 

The  river  Sagamores  came  to  the  feast ; 
And  chiefs  whose  homes  the  sea-winds 

shook, 
Sat  down  on  the  mats  of  Pennacook. 

They  came  from   Sunapee's  shore  of 

rock, 

From  the  snowy  sources  of Snooganock, 
And    from   rough    Coos  whose    thick 

woods  shake 
Their  pine-cones  in  Umbagog  Lake. 

From  Ammonoosuc's  mountain  pass, 
Wild  as  his  home,  came  Chepewass  ; 
And  the  Keenomps  of  the  hills  which 

throw 
Their  shade  on  the  Smile  of  Manito. 

With  pipes  of  peace  and  bows  unstrung, 
Glowing  with  paint  came  old  and  young, 
In  wampum  and  furs  and  feathers  ar 
rayed 

To  the  dance  and  feast  the  Bashaba 
made. 

Bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  waters  yield, 
On  dishes  of  birch  and  hemlock  piled, 
Garnished  and  graced    that    banquet 
wild. 

Steaks  of  the  brown  bear  fat  and  large 
From  the  rocky  slopes  of  the   Kear- 
sarge ; 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


Delicate  trout  from  Babboosuck  brook, 
And  salmon  speared  in  the  Contoocook ; 

Squirrels  which  fed  where    nuts  fell 

thick 

In  the  gravellv  bed  of  the  Otternic, 
And  small   wild-hens    in    reed-snares 

caught 
From    the     banks     of    Sondagardee 

brought ; 

Pike  and  perch  from  the  Suncook  taken, 
Nuts  from  the  trees  of  the  Black  Hills 

shaken, 
Cranberries  picked  in  the  Squamscot 

bog, 
And  grapes  from  the  vines  of  Piscata- 

quog: 

And,  drawn  from  that  great  stone  vase 

which  stands 
In    the    river    scooped   by  a    spirit's 

m  hands,23 
Garnished  with  spoons  of  shell  and 

horn, 
Stood  the  birchen  dishes  of  smoking 

corn. 

Thus  bird  of  the  air  and  Deast  01  tne 

field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  the  waters 

_  yield, 

Furnished  in  that  olden  day 
The  bridal  feast  of  the  Bashaba. 

And  merrily  when  that  feast  was  done 
On  the  fire-lit  green  the  dance  begun, 
With  squaws'  shrill  stave,  and  deeper 

hum 
Of  old  men  beating  the  Indian  drum. 

Painted  and  plumed,  with  scalp-locks 

flowing, 
And  red  arms  tossing  and  black  eyes 

glowing, 

Now  in  the  light  and  now  in  the  shade 
Around  the  fires  the  dancers  played. 

The  step  was  quicker,  the  song  more 

shrill, 
And  the  beat  of  the  small  drums  louder 

still 

Whenever  within  the  circle  drew 
The  Saugus  Sachem  and  Weetamoo. 


The  moons  of  forty  winters  had  shed 
Their  snow  upon  that  chieftain's  head, 
And  toil  and  care,  and  battle's  chance 
Had  seamed  his  hard  dark  countenance. 

A  fawn  beside  the  bison  grim,  — 
Why  turns  the  bride's  fond  eye  on  him, 
In  whose  cold  look  is  naught  beside 
The  triumph  of  a  sullen  pride  ? 

Ask  why  the  graceful  grape  entwines 
The  rough  oak  with  her  arm  of  vines  ; 
And  why  the  gray  rock's  rugged  cheek 
The  soft  lips  of  the  mosses  seek  : 

Why,  with  wise  instinct,  Nature  seems 
To  harmonize  her  wide  extremes, 
Linking  the  stronger  with  the  weak, 
The  haughty  with  the  soft  and  meek  ! 


V.      THE   NEW   HOME. 

A  WILD  and  broken  landscape,  spiked 

with  firs, 

Rougheningthebleakhorizon'snorth- 
ern  edge, 

Steep,  cavernous  hillsides,  where  black 

hemlock  spurs 

And  sharp,  gray  splinters  of  the  wind 
swept  ledge 

Pierced  the  thin-glazed  ice,  or  bristling 
rose, 

Where  the  cold  rim  of  the  sky  sunk  down 
upon  the  snows. 

And    eastward    cold,    wide    marshes 

stretched  away, 
Dull,  dreary  flats  without  a  bush  or 

tree, 
O'er-crossedby  icy  creeks,  where  twice  a 

day 
Gurgled  the  waters  of  the  moon-struck 

sea ; 
And  faint  with  distance  came  the  stifled 

roar, 
The  melancholy  lapse  of  waves  on  that 

low  shore. 

No  cheerful  village  with  its  mingling 

smokes, 

No  laugh  ©f  children  wrestling  in  the 
snow, 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


iTo  camp-fire  blazing  through  the  hill 
side  oaks, 

No  fishers  kneeling  on  the  ice  be 
low; 

Yet  midst  all  desolate  things  of  sound 
and  view, 

Through  the  long  winter  moons  smiled 
dark-eyed  Weetamoo. 

Her  heart  had  found  a  home ;  and  freshly 

all 

Its  beautiful  affections  overgrew 
Theirruggedprop.  As  o'er  some  granite 

wall 

Soft  vine-leaves  open  to  the  moisten 
ing  dew 
And  warm  bright  sun,  the  love  of  that 

/oung  wife 
on  a  hard  cold  breast  the  dew 
and  warmth  of  life. 

The  steep  bleak  hills,  the  melancholy 

shore, 

The  long  dead  level  of  the  marsh  be 
tween, 

A  coloring  of  unreal  beauty  wore 

Through  the    soft    golden    mist    of 
young  love  seen. 

For  o'er  those  hills  and  from  that  dreary 
plain, 

Nightly  she  welcomed  home  her  hun 
ter  chief  again. 

No  warmth  of  heart,  no  passionate  burst 

of  feeling 

Repaid  her  welcoming  smile  and  part 
ing  kiss, 

No  fond  and  playful  dalliance  half  con 
cealing, 

Under  the  guise  of  mirth,  its  tender 
ness  ; 

But,  in  their  stead,  the  warrior's  settled 
pride, 

And  vanity's  pleased  smile  with  homage 
satisfied. 

Enough  for  Weetamoo,  that  she  alone 
Sat  on  his  mat  and  slumbered  at  his 

side  ; 
That  he  whose  fame  to  her  young  ear 

had  flown 

Now  looked  upon  her  proudly  as  his 
bride ; 


That  he  whose  name  the  Mohawk  trem 
bling  heard 

Vouchsafed  to  her  at  times  a  kindly  look 
or  word. 

For  she  had  learned  the  maxims  of  her 

race, 

Which  teach  the  woman  to  become  a 
slave 

And  feel  herself  the  pardonless  disgrace 
Of  love's  fond  weakness  in  the  wise 
and  brave,  — 

The  scandal  and  the  shame  which  they 
incur, 

Who  give  to  woman  all  which  man  re 
quires  of  her. 

So  passed  the  winter  moons.     The  sun 

at  last 

Broke  link  by  link  the  frost  chain  of 
the  rills, 

And  the  warm  breathings  of  the  south 
west  passed 

Over  the  hoar  rime  of  the   Saugus 
hills, 

The  gray  and  desolate  marsh  grew  green 
once  more, 

Andthebirch-tree's  tremulousshade  fell 
round  the  Sachem's  door. 

Then  from  far  Pennacook  swift  runners 

came, 

With  gift  and  greeting  for  the  Saugus 
chief; 

Beseeching  him  in  the  great  Sachem's 

name, 

That,  with  the  comingoftheflowerand 
leaf, 

The  song  of  birds,  the  warm  breeze  and 
the  rain, 

Young  Weetamoo  might  greet  her  lone 
ly  sire  again. 

And  Winnepurkit  called  his  chiefs  to 
gether, 

And  a  grave  council  in  his  wigwam 
met, 

Solemn  and  brief  in  words,  considering 

whether 
The  rigid  rules  of  forest  etiquette 

Permitted  Weetamoo  once  more  to  look 

Upon  her  father's  face  and  green- 
banked  Pennacook. 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


With    interludes    of  pipe-smoke    and 

strong  water, 

The  forest  sages  pondered,  and  at 
length, 

Concluded  in  a  body  to  escort  her 
Up  to  her  father's  home  of  pride  and 
strength, 

Impressing  thus  on  Pennacook  a  sense 

Of  Winnepurkit's  power  and  regal  con 
sequence. 

So  through  old  woods  which  Aukeeta- 

mit's24  hand, 

A  soft  and  many-shaded  greenness 
lent, 

Over  high  breezy  hills,  and  meadow 

land 

Yellow  with  flowers,  the  wild  proces 
sion  went, 

Till,  rolling  down  its  wooded  banks  be 
tween, 

A  broad,  clear  mountain  stream,   the 
Merrimack  was  seen. 

The  hunter  leaning  on  his  bow   un 
drawn, 

The  fisher  lounging  on  the  pebbled 
shores, 

Squaws  in  the  clearing  dropping  the 

seed-corn, 

Young  children  peering  through  the 
wigwam  doors, 

Saw  with  delight,  surrounded  by  her 
train 

Of  painted  Saugus  braves,  their  Wee- 
tamoo  again. 


VI.     AT   PENNACOOK. 

THE  hills  are  dearest  which  our  child 
ish  feet 

Have  climbed  the  earliest ;  and  the 
streams  most  sweet 

Are  ever  those  at  which  our  young  lips 
drank, 

Stooped  to  their  waters  o'er  the  grassy 
bank  : 

Midst    the    cold    dreary    sea -watch, 

Home's  hearth-light 
Shines  round  the  helmsman  plunging 

through  the  night ; 


And  still,  with  inward  eye,  the  traveller 
sees 

In  close,  dark,  stranger  streets  his  na 
tive  trees. 

The  home-sick  dreamer's  brow  is  night 
ly  fanned 

By  breezes  whispering  of  his  native 
land, 

And  on  the  stranger's  dim  and  dying 
eye 

The  soft,  sweet  pictures  of  his  child 
hood  lie. 

Joy  then  for  Weetamoo,  to  sit  once 
more 

A  child  upon  her  father's  wigwam  floor  ! 

Once  more  with  her  old  fondness  to  be 
guile 

From  his  cold  eye  the  strange  light  of  a 
smile. 

The  long  bright  days  of  summer  swiftly 
passed, 

The  dry  leaves  whirled  in  autumn's 
rising  blast, 

And  evening  cloud  and  whitening  sun 
rise  rime 

Told  of  the  coming  of  the  winter-time. 

But  vainly  looked,  the  while,  young 
Weetamoo, 

Down  the  dark  river  for  her  chiefs  ca 
noe  ; 

No  dusky  messenger  from  Saugus 
brought 

The  grateful  tidings  which  the  young 
wife  sought. 

At  length   a  runner  from  her  father 

sent, 
To  Winnepurkit's  sea-cooled  wigwam 

went : 
"  Eagle  of  Saugus,  —  in  the  woods  the 

dove 
Mourns  for  the  shelter  of  thy  wings  of 

love." 

But  the  dark  chief  of  Saugus  turned 
aside 

In  the  grim  anger  of  hard-hearted  pride ; 

"  I  bore  her  as  became  a  chieftain's 
daughter, 

Up  to  her  home  beside  the  gliding  wa 
ter. 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


33 


"  If  now  no  more  a  mat  for  her  is  found 
Of  all  which  line  her  father's  wigwam 

round, 

Let  Pennacook  call  out  his  warrior  train, 
And  send  her  back  with  wampum  gifts 

again." 

The  baffled  runner  turned  upon  his 
track, 

Bearing  the  words  of  Winnepurkit  back. 

"  Dog  of  the  Marsh,"  cried  Penna 
cook,  "  no  more 

Shall  child  of  mine  sit  on  his  wigwam 
floor. 

"  Go,  —  let  him   seek    some    meaner 

squaw  to  spread 
The  stolen  bear-skin  of  his  beggar's 

bed  : 
Son  of  a  fish-hawk  !  —  let  him  dig  his 

clams 
For  some  vile  daughter  of  the  Aga- 

wams, 

"  Or  coward  Nipmucks  !  —  may  his 
scalp  dry  black 

In  Mohawk  smoke,  before  I  send  her 
back." 

He  shook  his  clenched  hand  towards 
the  ocean  wave. 

While  hoarse  assent  his  listening  coun 
cil  gave. 

Alas  poor  bride  !  —  can  thy  grim  sire 

impart 
His  iron  hardness  to  thy  woman's 

heart? 
Or  cold  self- torturing  pride  like  his 

atone 
For  love  denied  and  life's  warm  beauty 

flown  ? 

On  Autumn's  gray  and  mournful  grave 

the  snow 
Hung  its  white  wreaths ;  with   stifled 

voice  and  low 
The  river  crept,  by  one  vast  bridge 

o'ercrossed, 
Built    by   the    hoar-locked  artisan    of 

Frost. 

And  many  a  Moon  in  beauty  newly 

born 
Pierced  the  red  sunset  with  her  silver 

horn, 

3 


Or,  from  the  east,  across  her  azure  field 
Rolled  the  wide  brightness  of  her  full- 
orbed  shield. 

Yet  Winnepurkit  came  not, — on  the 

mat 

Of  the  scorned  wife  her  dusky  rival  sat ; 
And  he,  the  while,  in  Western  woods 

afar, 
Urged  the  long  chase,  or  trod  the  path 

of  war. 

Dry  up  thy  tears,  young  daughter  of  a 

chief! 
Waste  not  on  him  the   sacredness  of 

grief; 
Be  the   fierce  spirit  of  thy  sire  thine 

own, 
His  lips  of  scorning,  and  his  heart  of 

stone. 

What  heeds  the  warrior  of  a  hundred 
fights, 

The  storrn-wom  watcher  through  long 
hunting  nights, 

Cold,  crafty,  proud  of  woman's  weak 
distress, 

Her  home-bound  grief  and  pining  lone 
liness  ? 


VII.    THE   DEPARTURE. 

THE  wild  March  rains  had  fallen  fast 
and  long 

The  snowy  mountains  of  the  North 
among, 

Making  each  vale  a  watercourse, — 
each  hill 

Bright  with  the  cascade  of  some  new- 
made  rill. 

Gnawed  by  the  sunbeams,  softened  by 

the  rain, 
Heaved    underneath    by  the    swollen 

current's  strain, 
The  ice-bridge  yielded,  and  the  Merri- 

mack 
Bore  the  huge  ruin  crashing  down  its 

track. 

On  that  strong  turbid  water,  a  small 

boat 
Guided  by  one  weak  hand  was  seen  to 

float, 


34 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


Evil  the  fate  which  loosed  it  from  the 

shore, 
Too  early  voyager  with  too  frail  an 

oar ! 
Down  the  vexed  centre  of  that  rushing 

tide, 
The  thick  huge  ice-blocks  threatening 

either  side, 
The  foam-white  rocks  of  Amoskeag  in 

view, 
With  arrowy  swiftness  sped  that  light 

canoe. 

The  trapper,  moistening  his  moose's 

meat 
On  the    wet    bank  by  Uncanoonuc's 

feet, 
Saw  the  swift  boat   flash    down    the 

troubled  stream  — 
Slept  he,  or  waked  he?  — was  it  truth 

or  dream  ? 

The  straining  eye  bent  fearfully  before, 

The  small  hand  clenching  on  the  use 
less  oar, 

The  bead-wrought  blanket  trailing  o'er 
the  water  — 

He  knew  them  all— woe  for  the  Sa 
chem's  daughter. 

Sick  and  aweary  of  her  lonely  life, 
Heedless  of  peril  the  still  faithful  wife 
Had  left  her  mother's  grave,  her  fa 
ther's  door, 

To  seek  the  wigwam  of  her  chief  once 
more. 

Down  the  white  rapids  like  a  sere  leaf 

whirled, 
On  the  sharp  rocks  and  piled-up  ices 

hurled, 

Empty  and  broken,  circled  the  canoe 
In  the  vexed  pool  below  —  but,  where 

was  Weetamoo  ? 


VIII.    SONG  OF   INDIAN   WOMEN. 

THE  Dark  eye  has  left  us, 

The  Spring-bird  has  flown  ; 
On  the  pathway  of  spirits 

She  wanders  alone. 

The  song  of  the  wood-dove  has  died  on 
our  shore,  — 


Mat    wonck   kunna-monee  !  25  —  W* 
hear  it  no  more  ! 

O,  dark  water  Spirit ! 

We  cast  on  thy  wave 
These  furs  which  may  never 

Hang  over  her  grave  ; 
Bear  down  to  the  lost  one  the  robe* 

that  she  wore,  — 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  I  —  We  se* 
her  no  more  ! 

Of  the  strange  land  she  walks  in 

No  Powah  has  told  : 
It  may  burn  with  the  sunshine, 

Or  freeze  with  the  cold. 
Let  us  give  to  our  lost  one  the  robe* 

that  she  wore, 

Mat  wonck  kiinna-inon.ee  I  —  We  see 
her  no  more  ! 

The  path  she  is  treading 
Shall  soon  be  our  own  ; 
Each  gliding  in  shadow 
Unseen  and  alone  !  — 
In  vain  shall  we  call  on  the  souls  gone 

before,  — 

Mat    wonck    kunna-monee  !  —  They 
hear  us  no  more  1 

O  mighty  Sowanna  ! 26 

Thy  gateways  unfold, 
From  thy  wigwam  of  sunset 

Lift  curtains  of  gold  ! 
Take  home  the  poor  Spirit  whose  jour 
ney  is  o'er,  — 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee!  —  We  see 
her  no  more  ! 

So  sang  the  Children  of  the  Leaves 

beside 
The  broad,  dark  river's  coldly-flowing 

tide, 
Now  low,   now  harsh,  with    sob-like 

pause  and  swell, 
On  the  hieh  wind  their  voices  rose  and 

fell 

Nature's  wild  music,  —  sounds  of  wind 
swept  trees, 
The  scream  of  birds,  the  wailing  of  the 

breeze, 
The  roar  of  waters,  steady,  deep,  and 

strong,  — 
Mingled  and  murmured  in  that  farewell 

song. 


LEGENDARY. 


1846. 


LEGENDARY. 


THE   MERRIMACK. 

["  The  Indians  speak  of  a  beautiful  river, 
far  to  the  south,  which  they  call  Merri- 
mack."—  SIEUR  DE  MONTS  :  1604.] 

STREAM  of  my  fathers  !  sweetly  still 
The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill ; 
Poured  slantwise  down  the  long  defile, 
Wave,  wood,  and  spire  beneath  them 

smile. 

I  see  the  winding  Powow  fold 
The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 
And  following  down  its  wavy  line, 
Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with  thine. 
There  's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 
Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide 
As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evening  water-mark  ; 
No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 
No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 
Thy  broad,  smooth  current ;  not  a  sail 
Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean  gale  ; 
No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 
Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores  ; 
Nor  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 
Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 
But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 
Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 
Centuries  ago,  that  harbor-bar, 
Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 
And  Salisbury's  beach  of  shining  sand, 
And    yonder  island's    wave-smoothed 

strand, 

Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail 
Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale  ;  27 
And  o'er  these  woods  and  waters  broke 
The  cheer  from  Britain's  hearts  of  oak, 
As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 
Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 
Breaking  the  dull  continuous  wood, 
The  Merrimack  rolled  down  his  flood; 
Mingling  that  clear  pellucid  brook, 


Which  channels  vast  Agioochook 
When  spring-time's  sun  and  shower  un 
lock 

The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 
And  more  abundant  waters  given 
From  that  pure  lake,  "The  Smile  of 

Heaven,"  28 

Tributes  from  valeandmountain-side, — 
With  ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide  ! 

On  yonder  rocky  cape,  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 
Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish  wood, 
The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 
Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  battle-flag ; 
And,  while  from  out  its  heavy  fold 
Saint  George's  crimson  cross  unrolled, 
Midst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet  blare, 
And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 
The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story  ;29 
Of  her,  the  flower  of  Islam's  daughters. 
Whose    harems   look    on    Stamboul's 

waters,  — 
Who,   when   the  chance   of  war  had 

bound 

The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreathed  o'er  with  silk  that  iron  chain^ 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of 

pain, 

And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 

But  look  !  —  the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams   down    on  wave   and   verdant 

shore  : 

And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  twilight  voice  of  distant  bells.  _ 
From  Ocean's  bosom,  white  and  thin, 
The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in  ; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapor  swim, 


LEGENDARY. 


While  yonder  lonely  coast-light,  set 
Within  its  wave-washed  minaret, 
Half  quenched,  a  beamless  star  and 

pale, 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil ! 

Home  of  my  fathers  ! —  I  have  stood 
Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly  flood : 
Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  Palisade  ; 
Looked  down  the  Apalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak  ; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk 's  softly  winding  stream  ; 
The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 
Through  broad  Potomac's  hem  ofpine  ; 
And  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna ; 
Yet,  wheresoe'er  his  step  might  be, 
Thy  wandering  child  looked  back  to 

thee! 

Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore  ; 
And  saw,  amidst  the  curtained  gloom 
And  quiet  of  his  lonely  room, 
Thy  sunset  scenes  before  him  pass  ; 
As,  in  Agrippa's  magic  glass, 
The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remembered  groves  in  greenness  grew, 
Bathed   still    in  childhood's    morning 

dew, 

Along  whose  bowers  of  beauty  swept 
Whatever  Memory's  mourners  wept, 
Sweet  faces,  which  the  charnel  kept, 
Young,  gentle  eyes,  which  long  had 

slept ; 

And  while  the  gazer  leaned  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  dear  familiar  face, 
He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown,  — 
A  phantom  and  a  dream  alone  ! 


THE    NORSEMEN.*) 

GIFT  from  the  cold  and  silent  Past ! 

A  relic  to  the  present  cast ; 

Left  on  the  ever-changing  strand 

Of  shifting  and  unstable  sand, 

Which    wastes    beneath    the    steady 

chime 
And  beating  of  the  waves  of  Time  ! 


Who  from  its  bed  of  primal  rock 
First    wrenched  thy   dark,   unshapely 

block? 

Whose  hand,  of  curious  skill  untaught, 
Thy  rude  and  savage  outline  wrought  ? 

The  waters  of  my  native  stream 
Are  glancing  in  the  sun's  warm  beam  : 
From  sail-urged  keel  and  flashing  oar 
The  circles  widen  to  its  shore  ; 
And  cultured  field  and  peopled  town 
Slope  to  its  willowed  margin  down. 
Yet,  while  this  morning  breeze  is  bring 
ing 
The    home-life    sound  of  school-bells 

ringing, 

And  rolling  wheel,  and  rapid  jar 
Of  the  fire-winged  and  steedless  car, 
And  voices  from  the  wayside  near 
Come  quick  and  blended  on  my  ear, 
A  spell  is  in  this  old  gray  stone,  — 
My  thoughts  are  with  the  Past  alone  t 

A  change ! — The  steepled  town  no  moi  ft 
Stretches  along  the  sail-thronged  shore' 
Like  palace-domes  in  sunset's  cloud, 
Fade  sun-gilt  spire  and  mansion  proud  ; 
Spectrally  rising  where  they  stood, 
I  see  the  old,  primeval  wood  : 
Dark,  shadow-like,  on  either  hand 
I  see  its  solemn  waste  expand  : 
It  climbs  the  green  and  cultured  hill, 
It  arches  o'er  the  valley's  rill ; 
And  leans  from  cliff  and  crag,  to  t 
Its  wild  arms  o'er  the  stream  below. 
Unchanged,   alone,    the    same    brigbt 

river 

Flows  on,  as  it  will  flow  forever  1 
I  listen,  and  I  hear  the  low 
Soft  ripple  where  its  waters  go  ; 
I  hear  behind  the  panther's  cry, 
The  wild-bird's  scream  goes  thrilling  by, 
And  shyly  on  the  river's  brink 
The  deer  is  stooping  down  to  drink. 

But  hark  !  —  from  wood  and  rock  flung 

back, 

What  sound  comes  up  the  Merrimack? 
What  sea-worn  barks  are  those  which 

throw 

The  light  spray  from  each  rushingprow? 
Have  they  not  in  the  North  Sea's  blast 
Bowed  to  the  waves  the  straining  mast? 
Their  frozen  sails  the  low,  pale  sun 
Of  Thule's  night  has  shone  upon  ; 


CASSANDRA    SOUTHWICK. 


39 


Flapped  by  the  sea-wind's  gusty  sweep 
Round  icy  drift,  and  headland  steep. 
Wild    Jutland's  wives  and    Lochlin's 

daughters 
Have  watched  them  fading  o'er  the 

waters, 
Lessening    through  driving  mist  and 

spray, 
Like  white-winged  sea-birds  on  their 

way ! 

Onward  they  glide,  —  and  now  I  view 
Their  iron-armed  and  stalwart  crew  ; 
Joy  glistens  in  each  wild  blue  eye, 
Turned  to  green  earth  and  summer  sky  : 
Each  broad,  seamed  breast  hascast  aside 
Its  cumbering  vest  of  shaggy  hide  ; 
Bared  to  the  sun  and  soft  warm  air, 
Streams  back  the  Norsemen's  yellow 

hair. 

I  see  the  gleam  of  axe  and  spear, 
The  sound  of  smitten  shields  I  hear, 
Keeping  a  harsh  and  fitting  time 
To  Saga's  chant,  and  Runic  rhyme  ; 
Such  lays  as  Zetland's  Scald  has  sung, 
His  gray  and  naked  isles  among  ; 
Or  muttered  low  at  midnight  hour 
Round  Odin's  mossy  stone  of  power. 
The  wolf  beneath  the  Arctic  moon 
Has  answered  to  that  startling  rune  ; 
The  Gael  has  heard  its  stormy  swell, 
The  light  Frank  knows  its  summons 

well ; 

lona's  sable-stoled  Culdee 
Has  heard  it  sounding  o'er  the  sea, 
And  swept,  with  hoary  beard  and  hair, 
His  altar's  foot  in  trembling  prayer  ! 

'T  is  past,  —  the  'wildering  vision  dies 
la  darkness  on  my  dreaming  eyes  ! 


The  forest  vanishes  in  air,  — 
Hill-slope  and  vale  lie  starkly  bare  ; 
I  hear  the  common  tread  of  men, 
And  hum  of  work-day  life  again  : 
The  mystic  relic  seems  alone 
A  broken  mass  of  common  stone  ; 
And  if  it  be  the  chiselled  limb 
Of  Berserker  or  idol  grim,  — 
A  fragment  of  Valhalla's  Thor, 
The  stormy  Viking's  god  of  War, 
Or  Praga  of  the  Runic  lay, 
Or  love-awakening  Siona, 
I  know  not,  —  for  no  graven  line, 
Nor  Druid  mark,  nor  Runic  sign, 
Is  left  me  here,  by  which  to  trace 
Its  name,  or  origin,  or  place. 
Yet,  for  this  vision  of  the  Past, 
This  glance  upon  its  darkness  cast, 
My  spirit  bows  in  gratitude 
Before  the  Giver  of  all  good, 
Who  fashioned  so  the  human  mind, 
That,  from  the  waste  of  Time  behind 
A  simple  stone,  or  mound  of  earth, 
Can  summon  the  departed  forth ; 

?uicken  the  Past  to  life  again,  — 
he  Present  lose  in  what  hath  been, 
And  in  their  primal  freshness  show 
The  buried  forms  of  long  ago. 
As  if  a  portion  of  that  Thought 
By  which  the  Eternal  will  is  wrought, 
Whose  impulse  fills  anew  with  breath 
The  frozen  solitude  of  Death, 
To  mortal  mind  were  sometimes  lent, 
To  mortal  musings  sometimes  sent, 
To  whisper  —  even  when  it  seems 
But  Memory's  fantasy  of  dreams  — 
Through  the  mind's  waste  of  woe  and 

sin, 
Of  an  immortal  origin  ! 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 

1658. 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing  rise  to-day, 
From  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  He  hath  plucked  the  spoil  away, — 
Yea,  He  who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the  faithful  three, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  His  handmaid  free  ! 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my  prison  bars, 
Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell  the  pale  gleam  of  stars  ; 
In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  through  the  long  night-time, 
My  grated  casement  whitened  with  autumn's  early  rime. 


LEGENDARY. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour  crept  by  ; 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank  adown  the  sky  ; 
No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that  which  seemed  to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of  the  sea  ; 

All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that  on  the  morrow 
The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock  me  in  my  sorrow, 
Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bargained  for  and  sold, 
Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a  heifer  from  the  fold  ! 

O,  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there,  —  the  shrinking  and  the  shame ; 
And  the  low  voice  of  the  Tempter  like  whispers  to  me  came  : 
"  Why  sit'st  thou  thus  forlornly  !  "  the  wicked  murmur  said, 
"  Damp  walls  thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold  earth  thy  maiden  bed? 

"  Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices  soft  and  sweet, 
Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,  heard  in  the  pleasant  street  ? 
Where  be  the  youths  whose  glances,  the  summer  Sabbath  through, 
Turned  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  father's  pew? 

"Why  sit'st  thou  here,  Cassandra?—  Bethink  thee  with  what  mirth 
Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the  warm  bright  hearth  ; 
How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble  on  foreheads  white  and  fair, 
On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in  golden  hair. 

"  Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens,  not  for  thee  kind  words  are  spokec 
Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods  by  laughing  boys  are  broken, 
No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy  lap  are  laid, 
For  thee  no  flowers  of  autumn  the  youthful  hunters  braid. 

"  O,  weak,  deluded  maiden  !  —  by  crazy  fancies  led, 

With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path  to  tread ; 

To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teaching  pure  and  sound ; 

And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-haired  and  sackcloth  bound. 

"  Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock  at  things  divine, 
Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread  and  wine  ; 
Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and  from  the  pillory  lame, 
Rejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glorying  in  their  shame. 

"And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee?  —  a  sadly  toiling  slave, 
Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain  of  bondage  to  the  grave  ! 
Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued  in  hopeless  thrall, 
The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn  of  all  !  " 

O,  ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble  Nature's  fears 
Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  of  unavailing  tears, 
I  wrestled  down  the  evil  thoughts,  and  strove  in  silent  prayer, 
To  feel,  O  Helper  of  the  weak  !  that  Thou  indeed  wert  there  ! 


CASSANDRA   SOUTH  WICK.  41 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies  !  —  for  the  peace  and  love  I  felt, 
Like  dew  of  Hermon's  holy  hill,  upon  my  spirit  melt ; 
When,  "  Get  behind  rne,  Satan  !  "  was  the  language  of  my  heart, 
And  I  felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his  doubts  depart. 

Slow  broke  the  gray  cold  morning ;  again  the  sunshine  fell, 
Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate  within  my  lonely  cell ; 
The  hoar-frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and  upward  from  the  street 
Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and  tread  of  passing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door  was  open  cast, 
And  slowly  at  the  sheriffs  side,  up  the  long  street  I  passed  ; 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt,  but  dared  not  see, 
How,  from  every  door  and  window,  the  people  gazed  on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame  burned  upon  my  cheek, 

Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trembling  limbs  grew  weak  : 

"  O  Lord  !  support  thy  handmaid  ;  and  from  her  soul  cast  out 

The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare,  —  the  weakness  and  the  doubt." 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scattered,  like  a  cloud  in  morning's  breeze, 
And  a  low  deep  voice  within  me  seemed  whispering  words  like  these: 
"  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy  heaven  a  brazen  wall, 
Trust  still  His  loving-kindness  whose  power  is  over  all." 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the  sunlit  waters  broke 
On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and  shingly  wall  of  rock  ; 
The  merchant-ships  lay  idly  there,  in  hard  clear  lines  on  high, 
Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their  network  on  the  sky. 

And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak-wrapped  and  grave  and  cold, 
And  grim  and  stout  sea-captains  with  faces  bronzed  and  old, 
And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel  clerk  at  hand, 
Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler  of  the  land. 

And  poisoning  with  his  evil  words  the  ruler's  ready  ear, 
The  priest  leaned  o'er  his  saddle,  with  laugh  and  scoff  and  jeer ; 
It  stirred  my  soul,  and  from  my  lips  the  seal  of  silence  broke, 
As  if  through  woman's  weakness  a  warning  spirit  spoke. 

I  cried,  "The  Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou  smiter  of  the  meek, 
Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  trampler  of  the  weak  ! 
Go  light  the  dark,  cold  hearth-stones,  —  go  turn  the  prison  lock 
Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou  wolf  amid  the  flock  !  " 

Dark  lowered  the  brows  of  Endicott,  and  with  a  deeper  red 

O'er  Rawson's  \vine-empurpled  cheek  the  flush  of  anger  spread  ; 

"  Good  people,"  quoth  the  white-lipped  priest,  "  heed  not  her  words  so  wild, 

Her  Master  speaks  within  her,  —  the  Devil  owns  his  child  !  " 

But  gray  heads  shook,  and  young  brows  knit,  the  while  the  sheriff  read 
That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor  have  made, 
Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol  priesthood  bring 
No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful  offering. 


!  LEGENDARY. 

Then  to  the  stout  sea-captains  the  sheriff,  turning,  said,  — 
"  Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take  this  Quaker  maid? 
In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Virginia's  shore, 
You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than  Indian  girl  or  Moor." 

Grim  and  silent  stood  the  captains ;  and  when  again  he  cried, 
"  Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen  !  "  —  no  voice,  no  sign  replied  ; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and  kind  words  met  my  ear,  — 
"  God  bless  thee,  and  preserve  thee,  my  gentle  girl  and  dear ! " 

A  weight  seemed  lifted  from  my  heart,  —  a  pitying  friend  was  nigh, 
I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it  in  "his  eye  ; 
And  when  again  the  sheriff  spoke,  that  voice,  so  kind  to  me, 
Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the  roaring  of  the  sea,  — 

"  Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver,  — pack  with  coins  of  Spanish  gold, 
From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  roomage  of  her  hold, 
By  the  living  God  who  made  me  !  —  I  would  sooner  in  your  bay 
Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear  this  child  away  !  " 

"Well  answered,  worthy  captain,  shame  on  their  cruel  laws  !  " 
Ran  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud  the  people's  just  applause. 
"  Like  the  herdsman  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of  old, 
Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again  for  silver  sold?  " 

I  looked  on  haughty  Endicott ;  with  weapon  half-way  drawn, 
Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of  bitter  hate  and  scorn; 
Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle-rein,  and  turned  in  silence  back, 
And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode  murmuring  in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bitterness  of  soul  j 
Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,  and  crushed  his  parchment  roll. 
"  Good  friends,"  he  said,  "since  both  have  fled,  the  ruler  and  the  priest, 
Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work  I  be  not  well  released." 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which,  full  and  clear,  swept  round  the  silent  bay, 
As,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he  bade  me  go  my  way  ; 
For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  streamlet  of  the  glen, 
And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned  the  hearts  of  men. 

O,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seemed  changed  beneath  my  eye, 
A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue  walls  of  the  sky, 
A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill,  and  stream  and  woodland  lay, 
And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  waters  of  the  bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life  !  —  to  Him  all  praises  be, 
Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set  his  handmaid  free  ; 
All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power  the  mighty  are  afraid, 
Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare,  which  for  the  poor  is  laid  ! 

Sing,  O  my  soul,  rejoicingly,  on  evening's  twilight  calm 
Uplift  the  loud  thanksgiving,  — pour  forth  the  grateful  psalm  ; 
Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as  did  the  saints  of  old, 
When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  rescued  Peter  told. 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS. 


43 


And  weep  and  howl,  ye  evil  priests  and  mighty  men  of  wrong, 
The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud,  and  lay  his  hand  upon  the  strong. 
Woe  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  his  avenging  hour  ! 
Woe  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to  raven  and  devour  ! 

But  let  the  humble  ones  arise,  —  the  poor  in  heart  be  glad, 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes  of  praise  be  clad, 
For  He  who  cooled  the  furnace,  and  smoothed  the  stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty  still  to  save  ! 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS. 
1756. 

But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness, 


AROUND  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 

The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 
The  firs  which  hang  its  gray  rocks  o'er, 
Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

The  sun  looks  o'er,  with  hazy  eye, 
The  snowy  mountain-tops  which  lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 

Dazzling  and  white  !  save  where  the 
bleak, 

Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splinter 
ing  peak, 

Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  those    cones  of 
snow. 

The  earth  hath  felt  the  breath  of  spring, 
Though  yet  on  her  deliverer's  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 

Fresh  grasses  fringe  the  meadow- 
brooks, 

And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  sweet  birch  and  the  sassafras, 
Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 

Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 

Hath  Nature  scattered  everywhere, 

In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air. 


What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 
Beside  their  slaughtered  chief,  of  this? 

The  turfs  red  stain  is  yet  undried,  — 
Scarce  have  the  death-shot  echoes  died 
Along  Sebago's  wooded  side  : 

And  silent  now  the  hunters  stand, 
Grouped  darkly,  where  a  swell  of  land 
Slopes  upward  from  the  lake's  white 

sand. 

Fire  and  the  axe  have  swept  it  bare, 
Save  one  lone  beech,  unclosing  there 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  vernal  air. 

With  grave,  cold  looks,  all  sternly  mute, 
They  break  the  damp  turf  at  its  foot, 
And  bare  its  coiled  and  twisted  root. 

They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  aside, 
The  firm  roots  from  the  earth  divide,  — 
The  rent  beneath  yawns  dark  and  wide. 

And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 
In  tasselled  garbs  of  skins  arrayed, 
And  girded  with  his  wampum-braid. 

The  silver  cross  he  loved  is  pressed 
Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  which  rest 
Upon  his  scarred  and  naked  breast. 

'T  is  done  :  the  roots  are  backward  sent, 
The  beechen-tree  stands  up  unbent,  — 
The  Indian's  fitting  monument ! 

When  of  that  sleeper's  broken  race 
Their  green  and  pleasant  dwelling-place 
Which    knew  them   once,   retains  no 
trace  ; 


44 


LEGENDARY. 


O,  long  may  sunset's  light  be  shed 
As  now  upon  that  beech's  head,  — 
A  green  memorial  of  the  dead  ! 

There  shall  his  fitting  requiem  be, 

In  northern  winds,  that,  cold  and  free, 

Howl  nightly  in  that  funeral  tree. 

To  their  wild  wail  the  waves  which 

break 

Forever  round  that  lonely  lake 
A  solemn  undertone  shall  make  ! 

And  who  shall  deem  .the  spot  unblest, 
Where  Nature's  younger  children  rest, 
Lulled    on    their    sorrowing   mother's 
breast  ? 

Deem  ye  that  mother  loveth  less 
These  bronzed  forms  of  the  wilderness 
She  foldeth  in  her  long  caress  ? 

As  sweet  o'er  them  her  wild-flowers 

blow, 

As  if  with  fairer  hair  and  brow 
The  blue-eyed  Saxon  slept  below. 

What  though  the  places  of  their  rest 
No  priestly  knee  hath  ever  pressed,  — 
No  funeral  rite  nor  prayer  hath  blessed? 

What  though  the  bigot's  ban  be  there, 
And  thoughts  of  wailing  and  despair, 
And  cursing  in  the  place  of  prayer  ! 

Yet  Heaven  hath  angelswatchinground 
The  Indian's  lowliest  forest-mound,  — 
And  they  have  made  it  holy  ground. 

There  ceases    man's  frail  judgment ; 

all 

His  powerless  bolts  of  cursing  fall 
Unheeded  on  that  grassy  pall. 

O,  peeled,  and  hunted,  and  reviled, 
Sleep  on,  dark  tenant  of  the  wild  ! 
Great  Nature  owns  her  simple  child  ! 

And  Nature's  God,  to  whom  alone 
The  secret  of  the  heart  is  known,  — 
The  hidden  language  traced  thereon  ; 

Who  from  its  many  cumberings 

Of  form  and  creed,  and  outward  things, 

To  light  the  naked  spirit  brings  ; 


Not  with  our  partial  eye  shall  scan, 
Not  with  our  pride  and  scorn  shall  ban, 
The  spirit  of  our  brother  man  ! 


ST.  JOHN. 

1647. 

"  To  the  winds  give  our  banker  ! 

Bear  homeward  again  !  " 
Cried  the  Lord  of  Acadia, 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  ; 
From  the  prow  of  his  shallop 

He  gazed,  as  the  sun, 
From  its  bed  in  the  ocean, 

Streamed  up  the  St.  John. 

O'er  the  blue  western  waters 

That  shallop  had  passed, 
Where  the  mists  of  Penobscot 

Clung  damp  on  her  mast. 
St.  Saviour  had  looked 

On  the  heretic  sail, 
As  the  songs  of  the  Huguenot 

Rose  on  the  gale. 

The  pale,  ghostly  fathers 

Remembered  her  well, 
And  had  cursed  her  while  passing, 

With  taper  and  bell, 
But  the  men  of  Monhegan, 

Of  Papists  abhorred, 
Had  welcomed  and  feasted 

The  heretic  Lord. 

They  had  loaded  his  shallop 

With  dun-fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemequid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coming 

With  banner  and  gun. 

And  the  prayers  of  the  elders 

Had  followed  his  way, 
As  homeward  he  glided, 

Down  Pentecost  Bay. 
O,  well  sped  La  Tour  ! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 
His  lady  kept  watch, 

For  his  coming  again. 


ST.   JOHN. 


4S 


O'er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 

The  morning  sun  shone, 
On  the  plane-trees  which  shaded 

The  shores  of  St.  John. 
"  Now,  why  from  yon  battlements 

Speaks  not  my  love  ! 
Why  waves  there  no  banner 

My  fortress  above? " 

Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 

St.  Estienne  gazed  about, 
On  fire-wasted  dwellings, 

And  silent  redoubt ; 
From  the  low,  shattered  walls 

Which  the  flame  had  o'errun, 
There  floated  no  banner, 

There  thundered  no  gun  ! 

But  beneath  the  low  arch 

Of  its  doorway  there  stood 
A  pale  priest  of  Rome, 

In  his  cloak  and  his  hood. 
With  the  bound  of  a  lion, 

La  Tour  sprang  to  land, 
On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 

He  fastened  his  hand. 

"  Speak,  son  of  the  Woman 

Of  scarlet  and  sin  ! 
What  wolf  has  been  prowling 

My  castle  within  ?  " 
From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 

The  Jesuit  broke, 
Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke  : 

"  No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne, 

Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 
But  thy  red-handed  rival, 

With  fire,  steel,  and  ball  1 
On  an  errand  of  mercy 

I  hitherward  came, 
While  the  walls  of  thy  castle 

Yet  spouted  with  flame. 

"  Pentagoet's  dark  vessels 

Were  moored  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey." 
"  But  what  of  my  lady  ?  " 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  : 
"  On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen  : 


"  Half-veiled  in  the  smoke-ckmd, 

Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 

In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon  ! 
But  woe  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  woe  ! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe  1 

"  In  the  track  of  the  shell, 

In  the  path  of  the  ball, 
Pentagoet  swept  over 

The  breach  of  the  wall !  ' 
Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment, — and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  his  men  ! 

"  Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 

Thy  lady  alone 
Saw  the  cross-blazoned  banner 

Float  over  St.  John." 
"  Let  the  dastard  look  to  it !  " 

Cried  fiery  Estienne, 
"Were  D'Aulney  King  Louis, 

I  'd  free  her  again  ! " 

"  Alas  for  thy  lady  ! 

No  service  from  thee 
Is  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free  : 
Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 
But  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  opened  her  door  I " 

As  if  suddenly  smitten 

La  Tour  staggered  back  ; 
His  hand  grasped  his  sword-hilt, 

His  forehead  grew  black. 
He  sprang  on  the  deck 

Of  his  shallop  again. 
"  We  cruise  now  for  vengeance  ! 

Give  way  1  "  cried  Estienne. 

"  Massachusetts  shall  hear 

Of  the  Huguenot's  wrong, 
And  from  island  and  creekside 

Her  fishers  shall  throng  ! 
Pentagoet  shall  rue 

What  his  Papists  have  done, 
When  his  palisades  echo 

The  Puritan's  gun  !  " 


LEGENDARY. 


O,  the  loveliest  of  heavens 

Hung  tenderly  o'er  him, 
There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine, 

And  green  isles  before  him  : 
But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on  ; 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John  ! 


PENTUCKET. 

1708. 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone  ! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters 

still 

Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west. 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar  ! 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 

The   dark    and   low-walled    dwellings 

stood, 

Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretched  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blackened  stumps  be 
tween. 

Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravelled  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and 

cold, 

Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

§uiet  and  calm,  without  a  fear 
f  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 
The  weary  laborer  left  his  plough,  — 
The  milkmaid  carolled  by  her  cow,  — 
From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 
Rose  songs  of  praise,  or  tones  of  mirth. 
At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 
And  silence  on  that  village  lay,  — 
So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 
Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallowed  all, 
Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 
Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate  ! 


Hours  passed  away.  By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimack  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood. 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hushed  grouping  of  a  dream. 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound,  — 
No  bark  of  fox,  nor  rabbit's  bound, 
Nor  stir  of  wings,  nor  waters  flowing, 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blow 
ing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 
Which  downward  from  the  hillside  beat? 
What  forms  were  those  which  darkly 

stood 

Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood? — 
Charred  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight 

dim, 

Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb  ? 
No,  —  through  the  trees  fierce  eyeballs 

glowed 
Dark    human    forms    in    moonshine 

showed, 

Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 
With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress  ! 

A  yell  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear 
Swelled  on  the  night  air,  far  and  clear,—- ;> 
Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock, — 
Then  rang  the  rifle-shot,  —  and  then 
The    shrill    death-scream  of  stricken 

men,  — 

Sank  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain,  — 
Bursting    through    roof  and  window 

came, 

Red,  fast,  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame  ; 
And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
On  still  dead  men  and  weapons  bared. 

The    morning    sun    looked    brightly 

through 

The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  filled  the  air,  — 
No  shout  was  heard,  —  nor  gunshot 

there  : 

Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke  ; 
And  on  the  greensward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain, 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped, 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head  ! 


THE  FA  MI  LISTS  HYMN. 


Even  now  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearthstone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak, 
Through  which  the  fatal   death -shot 

broke, 

And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Rouville'scorse  lay  grim  and  bare,— 
Whose   hideous    head,   in   death  still 

feared, 

Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard,  — 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 


THE  FAMILIST'S  HYMN. 

FATHER  !  to  thy  suffering  poor 

•    Strength  and  grace  and  faith  impart, 

And  with  thy  own  love  restore 

Comfort  to  the  broken  heart ! 
O.-  the  failing  ones  confirm 

With  a  holier  strength  of  zeal !  — 
Give  thou  not  the  feeble  worm 

Helpless  to  the  spoiler's  heel  1 

Father  !  for  thy  holy  sake 

We  are  spoiled  and  hunted  thus  ; 
Joyful,  for  thy  truth  we  take 

Bonds  and  burthens  unto  us  : 
Poor,  and  weak,  and  robbed  of  all, 

Weary  with  our  daily  task, 
That  thy  truth  may  never  fall 

Through  our  weakness,  Lord,  we  ask. 

Round  our  fired  and  wasted  homes 

Flits  the  forest-bird  unscared, 
And  at  noon  the  wild  beast  comes 

Where  our  frugal  meal  was  shared ; 
For  the  song  of  praises  there 

Shrieks  the  crow  the  livelong  day  ; 
For  the  sound  of  evening  prayer 

Howls  the  evil  beast  of  prey  ! 

Sweet  the  songs  we  loved  to  sing 

Underneath  thy  holy  sky,  — 
Words  and  tones  that  used  to  bring 

Tears  of  joy  in  every  eye,  — 
Dear  the  wrestling  hours  of  prayer, 

When  we  gathered  knee  to  knee, 
Blameless  youth  and  hoary  hair, 

Bowed,  O  God,  alone  to  thee. 


As  thine  early  children,  Lord, 

Shared  their  wealth  and  daily  bread, 
Even  so,  with  one  accord, 

We,  in  love,  each  other  fed. 
Not  with  us  the  miser's  hoard, 

Not  with  us  his  grasping  hand  ; 
Equal  round  a  common  board, 

Drew  our  meek  and  brother  band  ! 

Safe  our  quiet  Eden  lay 

When  the  war-whoop  stirred  the  land 
And  the  Indian  turned  away 

From  our  home  his  bloody  hand. 
Well  that  forest-ranger  saw, 

That  the  burthen  and  the  curse 
Of  the  white  man's  cruel  law 

Rested  also  upon  us. 

Torn  apart,  and  driven  forth 

To  our  toiling  hard  and  long, 
Father  !  from  the  dust  of  earth 

Lift  we  still  our  grateful  song  ! 
Grateful,  —  that  in  bonds  we  share 

In  thy  love  which  maketh  free  ; 
Joyful,  —that  the  wrongs  we  bear, 

Draw  us  nearer,  Lord,  to  thee  ! 

Grateful !  —  that  where'er  we  toil,  — 

By  Wachuset's  wooded  side, 
On  Nantucket's  sea-worn  isle, 

Or  by  wild  Neponset's  tide,  — 
Still,  in  spirit,  we  are  near, 

And  our  evening  hymns,  which  rise 
Separate  and  discordant  here, 

Meet  and  mingle  in  the  skies  ! 

Let  the  scoffer  scorn  and  mock, 

Let  the  proud  and  evil  priest 
Rob  the  needy  of  his  flock, 

For  his  wine-cup  and  his  feast,  — 
Redden  not  thy  bolts  in  store 

Through  the  blackness  of  thy  skies? 
For  the  sighing  of  the  poor 

Wilt  Thou  not,  at  length,  arise? 

Worn  and  wasted,  oh  !  how  long 

Shall  thy  trodden  poor  complain  ? 
In  thy  name  they  bear  the  wrong, 

In  thy  cause  the  bonds  of  pain  I 
Melt  oppression's  heart  of  steel, 

Let  the  haughty  priesthood  see, 
And  their  blinded  followers  feel, 

ThaJ-  u?  us  *hey  rcock  a*  Tfcee  \ 


48 


LEGENDARY. 


In  thy  time,  O  Lord  of  hosts, 

Stretch  abroad  that  hand  to  save 
Which  of  old,  on  Egypt's  coasts, 

Smote  apart  the  Red  Sea's  wave  ! 
Lead  us  from  this  evil  land, 

From  the  spoiler  set  us  free, 
And  once  more  our  gathered  band, 

Heart  to  heart,  shall  worship  thee  ! 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

TRAVELLER  !  on  thy  journey  toiling 

By  the  swift  Powow, 
With  the  summer  sunshine  falling 

On  thy  heated  brow, 
Listen,  while  all  else  is  still, 
To  the  brooklet  from  the  hill. 

Wild  and  sweet  the  flowers  are  blowing 

By  that  streamlet's  side, 
And  a  greener  verdure  showing 

Where  its  waters  glide,  — 
Down  the  hill-slope  murmuring  on, 
Over  root  and  mossy  stone. 

Where  yon  oak  his  broad  arms  flingeth 

O'er  the  sloping  hill, 
Beautiful  and  freshly  springeth 

That  soft-flowing  rill, 
Through  its  dark  roots  wreathed  and 

bare, 
Gushing  up  to  sun  and  air. 

Brighter  waters  sparkled  never 

In  that  magic  well, 
Of  whose  gift  of  life  forever 

Ancient  legends  tell,  — 
In  the  lonely  desert  wasted, 
And  by  mortal  lip  untasted. 

Waters  which  the  proud  Castilian  31 

Sought  with  longing  eyes, 
Underneath  the  bright  pavilion 

Of  the  Indian  skies  ; 
Where  his  forest  pathway  lay 
Through  the  blooms  of  Florida. 

Years  ago  a  lonely  stranger, 

With  the  dusky  brow 
Of  the  outcast  forest-ranger, 

Crossed  the  swift  Powow  ; 
And  betook  him  to  the  rill 
And  the  oak  upon  the  hill. 


O'er  his  face  of  moody  sadness 

For  an  instant  shone 
Something  like  a  gleam  of  gladness, 

As  he  stooped  him  down 
To  the  fountain's  grassy  side, 
And  his  eager  thirst  supplied. 

With  the  oak  its  shadow  throwing 

O'er  his  mossy  seat, 
And  the  cool,  sweet  waters  flowing 

Softly  at  his  feet, 
Closely  by  the  fountain's  rim 
That  lone  Indian  seated  him. 

Autumn's  earliest  frost  had  given 

To  the  woods  below 
Hues  of  beauty,  such  as  heaven 

Lendeth  to  its  bow  ; 
And  the  soft  breeze  from  the  west 
Scarcely  broke  their  dreamy  rest. 

Far  behind  was  Ocean  striving 

With  his  chains  of  sand  ; 
Southward,  sunny  glimpses  giving, 

'Twixt  the  swells  of  land, 
Of  its  calm  and  silvery  track, 
Rolled  the  tranquil  Merrimack. 

Over  village,  wood,  and  meadow 

Gazed  that  stranger  man, 
Sadly,  till  the  twilight  shadow 

Over  all  things  ran, 
Save  where  spire  and  westward  pane 
Flashed  the  sunset  back  again. 

Gazing  thus  upon  the  dwelling 

Of  his  warrior  sires, 
Where  no  lingering  trace  was  telling 

Of  their  wigwam  fires, 
Who  the  gloomy  thoughts  might  know 
Of  that  wandering  child  of  woe  ? 

Naked  lay,  in  sunshine  glowing, 

Hills  that  once  had  stood 
Down  their  sides  the  shadows  throwing 

Of  a  mighty  wood, 
Where  the  deer  his  covert  kept, 
And  the  eagle's  pinion  swept ! 

Where  the  birch  canoe  had  glided 

Down  the  swift  Powow, 
Dark  and  gloomy  bridges  strided 

Those  clear  waters  now  ; 
And  where  once  the  beaver  swam, 
Jarred  the  wheel  and  frowned  the  dam. 


THE  EXILES. 


For  the  wood-bird's  merry  singing, 

And  the  hunter's  cheer, 
Iron  clang  and  hammer's  ringing 

Smote  ujxm  his  ear  ; 
And  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  the  blackened  forges  broke. 

Could  it  be  his  fathers  ever 

Loved  to  linger  here  ? 
These  bare  hills,  this  conqueredriver,  - 

Could  they  hold  them  dear, 
With  their  native  loveliness 
Tamed  and  tortured  into  this  ? 

Sadly,  as  the  shades  of  even 

Gathered  o'er  the  hill, 
While  the  western  half  of  heaven 

Blushed  with  sunset  still, 

From  the  fountain's  mossy  seat 

•  Turned  the  Indian's  weary  feet. 

Year  on  year  hath  flown  forever, 

But  he  came  no  more 
To  the  hillside  or  the  river 

Where  he  came  before. 
But  the  villager  can  tell 
Of  that  strange  man's  visit  well. 

And  the  merry  children,  laden 
With  their  fruits  or  flowers,  — 

Roving  boy  and  laughing  maiden, 
In  their  school-day  hours, 

Love  the  simple  tale  to  tell 

Of  the  Indian  and  his  well. 


THE  EXILES. 

1660. 

THE  goodman  sat  beside  his  door 

One  sultry  afternoon, 
With  his  young  wife  singing  at  his  side 

An  old  and  goodly  tune. 

A  glimmer  of  heat  was  in  the  air  ; 

The  dark  green  woods  were  still  ; 
And  the  skirts  of  a  heavy  thunder-cloud 

Hung  over  the  western  hill. 

Black,  thick,  and  vast  arose  that  cloud 

Above  the  wilderness, 
As  some  dark  world  from  upper  air 

Were  stooping  over  this. 
4 


At  times  the  solemn  thunder  pealed, 

And  all  was  still  again, 
Save  a  low  murmur  in  the  air 

Of  coming  wind  and  rain. 

Just  as  the  first  big  rain-drop  fell, 

A  weary  stranger  came, 
And  stood  before  the  farmer's  door, 

With  travel  soiled  and  lame. 

Sad  seemed  he,  yet  sustaining  hope 

Was  in  his  quiet  glance, 
And  peace,  like  autumn's  moonlight, 
clothed 

His  tranquil  countenance. 

A  look,  like  that  his  Master  wore 

In  Pilate's  council-hall  : 
It  told  of  wrongs,  —  but  of  a  love 

Meekly  forgiving  all. 

"  Friend  !  wilt  thou  give  me  shelter 
here?  " 

The  stranger  meekly  said  ; 
And,  leaning  on  his  oaken  staff, 

The  goodman's  features  read. 

"  My  life  is  hunted,  —  evil  men 

Are  following  in  my  track ; 
The  traces  of  the  torturer's  whip 

Are  on  my  aged  back. 

"  And  much,  I  fear,  't  will  peril  thee 

Within  thy  doors  to  take 
A  hunted  seeker  of  the  Truth, 

Oppressed  for  conscience'  sake." 

O,  kindly  spoke  the  goodman's  wife,  — 
"  Come  in,  old  man  !  "  quoth  she,  — * 

"  We  will  not  leave  thee  to  the  storm, 
Whoever  thou  mayst  be." 

Then  came  the  aged  wanderer  in, 

And  silent  sat  him  down  ; 
While  all  within  grew  dark  as  night 

Beneath  the  storm-cloud's  frown. 

But  while  the  sudden  lightning's  blaz% 

Filled  every  cottage  nook, 
And  with  the  jarring  thunder-roll 

The  loosened  casements  shook, 

A  heavy  tramp  of  horses'  feet 
Came  sounding  up  the  lane, 

And  half  a  score  of  horse,  or  more 
Came  plunging  through  the  rai\ 


LEGENDARY. 


"Now,     Goodman    Macey,    ope    thy 
door,  — 

We  would  not  be  house-breakers  ; 
A  rueful  deed  thou  'st  done  this  day, 

In  harboring  banished  Quakers." 

Out  looked  the  cautious  goodman  then, 
With  much  of  fear  and  awe, 

For  there,  with  broad  wig  drenched 

with  rain, 
The  parish  priest  he  saw. 

"  Open  thy  door,  thou  wicked  man, 

And  let  thy  pastor  in, 
And  give  God  thanks,  if  forty  stripes 

Repay  thy  deadly  sin." 

"  What   seek  ye  ? "   quoth  the  good 
man,  — 

"  The  stranger  is  my  guest ; 
He    is    worn  with  toil    and  grievous 

wrong,  — 
Pray  let  the  old  man  rest." 

"  Now,  out  upon  thee,  canting  knave  !  " 
And  strong  hands  shook  the  door, 

"  Believe     me,    Macey,"    quoth    the 

priest,  — 
"  Thou  'It  rue  thy  conduct  sore." 

Then  kindled  Macey's  eye  of  fire  : 
"  No  priest  who  walks  the  earth, 

Shall  pluck  away  the  stranger-guest 
Made  welcome  to  my  hearth." 

Down  from  his  cottage  wall  he  caught 

The  matchlock,  hotly  tried 
At  Preston-pans  and  Marston-moor, 

By  fiery  Ireton's  side  ; 

Where  Puritan,  and  Cavalier, 

With  shout  and  psalm  contended  ; 

And    Rupert's   oath,   and   Cromwell's 

prayer, 
With  battle-thunder  blended. 

Up  rose  the  ancient  stranger  then  : 

"  My  spirit  is  not  free 
To  bring  the  wrath  and  violence 

Of  evil  men  on  thee  : 

"  And  for  thyself,  I  pray  forbear,  — 

Bethink  thee  of  thy  Lord, 
Who  healed  again  the  smitten  ear, 

And  sheathed  his  follower's  sword. 


"  I  go,  as  to  the  slaughter  led  : 
Friends  of  the  poor,  farewell  !  " 

Beneath  his  hand  the  oaken  door, 
Back  on  its  hinges  fell. 

"  Come  forth,  old  graybeard,  yea  and 
nay  "  ; 

The  reckless  scoffers  cried, 
As  to  a  horseman's  saddle-bow 

The  old  man's  arms  were  tied. 

And  of  his  bondage  hard  and  long 

In  Boston's  crowded  jail, 
Where  suffering  woman's  prayer  Was 
heard, 

With  sickening  childhood's  wail, 

It  suits  not  with  our  tale  to  tell  : 
Those  scenes  have  passed  away,  — 

Let  the  dim  shadows  of  the  past 
Brood  o'er  that  evil  day. 

"Ho,     sheriff!"    quoth    the    ardent 
priest,  — 

"  Take  Goodman  Macey  too  ; 
The  sin  of  this  day's  heresy, 

His  back  or  purse  shall  rue." 

"  Now,  goodwife,  haste  thee  ! "  Macfj 
cried, 

She  caught  his  manly  arm  :  — 
Behind,  the  parson  urged  pursuit, 

With  outcry  and  alarm. 

Ho  !    speed    the    Maceys,    neck    ttr 
naught,  — 

The  river-course  was  near :  — 
The  plashing  on  its  pebbled  shore 

Was  music  to  their  ear. 

A  gray  rock,  tasselled  o'er  with  birch, 

Above  the  waters  hung, 
And  at  its  base,  with  every  wave, 

A  small  light  wherry  swung. 

A  leap  —  they  gain  the  boat  —  and  there 
The  goodman  wields  his  oar  : 

"  111    luck    betide    them    all,"  —  he 

cried,  — 
"  The  laggards  upon  the  shore." 

Down   through    the    crashing    under 
wood, 
The  burly  sheriff  came  :  — 


THE  EXILES. 


"  Stand,  Goodman  Macey,  —  yield  thy 
self; 
Yield  in  the  King's  own  name." 

"  Now  out  upon  thy  hangman's  face  !  " 
Bold  Macey  answered  then,  — 

"  Whip  ivomen,  on  the  village  green, 
But  meddle  not  with  men" 

The  priest  came  panting  to  the  shore,  — 
His  grave  cocked  hat  was  gone  ; 

Behind  him,  like  some  owl's  nest,  hung 
His  wig  upon  a  thorn. 

"  Come  back,  —  come  back  ! "  the  par 
son  cried, 

"  The  church's  curse  beware." 
"Curse,  an'  thou  wilt,"  said   Macey, 

"but^ 
Thy  blessing  prithee  spare." 

"  Vile    scoffer ! "     cried     the     baffled 

priest,  — 

"  Thou  'It  yet  the  gallows  see." 
"  Who  's  born  to  be  hanged,  will  not  be 

drowned," 
Quoth  Macey,  merrily ; 

"And  so,  sir  sheriff  and  priest,  good 
by  !"_ 

He  bent  him  to  his  oar, 
And  the  small  boat  glided  quietly 

From  the  twain  upon  the  shore. 

Now  in  the  west,  the  heavy  clouds 

Scattered  and  fell  asunder, 
While  feebler  came  the  rush  of  rain, 

And  fainter  growled  the  thunder. 

And  through  the  broken  clouds,  the  sun 
Looked  out  serene  and  warm, 

Painting  its  holy  symbol-light 
Upon  the  passing  storm. 

O,  beautiful !  that  rainbow  span, 

O'er  dim  Crane-neck  was  bended  ;  — 

One  bright  foot  touched  the   eastern 

hills, 
And  one  with  ocean  blended. 

I3y  green  Pentucket's  southern  slope 
The  small  boat  glided  fast,  — 

The  watchers  of  "  the  Block-house  " 

saw 
The  strangers  as  they  passed. 


That  night  a  stalwart  garrison 

Sat  shaking  in  their  shoes, 
To  hear  the  dip  of  Indian  oars,  — 

The  glide  of  birch  canoes. 

The  fisher-wives  of  Salisbury, 

(The  men  were  all  away,) 
Looked  out  to  see  the  stranger  oar 

Upon  their  waters  play. 

Deer-Island's  rocks  and  fir-trees  threw 
Their  sunset-shadows  o'er  them, 

And  Newbury's  spire  and  weathercock 
Peered  o'er  the  pines  before  them. 

Around  the  Black  Rocks,  on  their  left, 
The  marsh  lay  broad  and  green  ; 

And  on  their  right,  with  dwarf  shrubs 

crowned, 
Plum  Island's  hills  were  seen. 

With  skilful  hand  and  wary  eye 
The  harbor-bar  was  crossed  ;  — 

A  plaything  of  the  restless  wave, 
The  boat  on  ocean  tossed. 

The  glory  of  the  sunset  heaven 

On  land  and  water  lay,  — 
On  the  steep  hills  of  Agawam, 

On  cape,  and  bluff,  and  bay. 

They  passed  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape 
Ann, 

And  Gloucester's  harbor-bar ; 
The  watch-fire  of  the  garrison 

Shone  like  a  setting  star. 

How  brightly  broke  the  morning 

On  Massachusetts  Bay  ! 
Blue  wave,  and  bright  green  island, 

Rejoicing  in  the  day. 

On  passed  the  bark  in  safety 

Round  isle  and  headland  steep,  — 

No  tempest  broke  above  them, 
No  fog-cloud  veiled  the  deep. 

Far  round  the  bleak  and  stormy  Cape 
The  vent'rous  Macey  passed, 

And  on  Nantucket's  naked  isle, 
Drew  up  his  boat  at  last. 

And  how,  in  log-built  cabin, 

They  braved  the  rough  sea-weather ; 
And  there,  in  peace  and  quietness, 

Went  down  life's  vale  together  : 


LEGENDARY. 


How  others  drew  around  them, 
And  how  their  fishing  sped, 

Until  to  every  wind  of  heaven 
Nantucket's  sails  were  spread ; 

How  pale  Want  alternated 
With  Plenty's  golden  smile ; 

Behold,  is  it  not  written 
In  the  annals  of  the  isle? 

And  yet  that  isle  remaineth 

A  refuge  of  the  free, 
As  when  true-hearted  Macey 

Beheld  it  from  the  sea. 

Free  as  the  winds  that  winnow 
Her  shrubless  hills  of  sand, — 

Free  as  the  waves  that  batter 
Along  her  yielding  land. 

Than  hers,  at  duty's  summons, 
No  loftier  spirit  stirs,  — 

Nor  falls  o'er  human  suffering 
A  readier  tear  than  hers. 

God  bless  the  sea-beat  island  !  — 
And  grant  forevermore, 

That  charity  and  freedom  dwell 
As  now  upon  her  shore  ! 


THE    NEW    WIFE    AND    THE 
OLD. 

DARK  the  halls,  and  cold  the  feast,  — 
Gone  the  bridemaids,  gone  the  priest : 
All  is  over,  —  all  is  done, 
Twain  of  yesterday  are  one  ! 
Blooming  girl  and  manhood  gray, 
Autumn  in  the  arms  of  May  ! 

Hushed  within  and  hushed  without, 
Dancing  feet  and  wrestlers'  shout ; 
Dies  the  bonfire  on  the  hill ; 
All  is  dark  and  all  is  still, 
Save  the  starlight,  save  the  breeze 
Moaning  through  the  graveyard  trees  ; 
And  the  great  sea-waves  below, 
Pulse  of  the  midnight  beating  slow. 

From  the  brief  dream  of  a  bride 
She  hath  wakened,  at  his  side. 
With  half-uttered  shriek  and  start,  — 
Feels  she  not  his  beating  heart  ? 


And  the  pressure  of  his  arm, 

And  his  breathing  near  and  warm  ? 

Lightly  from  the  bridal  bed 
Springs  that  fair  dishevelled  head, 
And  a  feeling,  new,  intense, 
Half  of  shame,  half  innocence, 
Maiden  fear  and  wonder  speaks 
Through  her  lips  and  changing  cheek* 

From  the  oaken  mantel  glowing 
Faintest  light  the  lamp  is  throwing 
On  the  mirror's  antique  mould, 
High-backed  chair,  and  wainscot  old, 
And,  through  faded  curtains  stealing, 
His  dark  sleeping  face  revealing. 

Listless  lies  the  strong  man  there, 
Silver-streaked  his  careless  hair  ; 
Lips  of  love  have  left  no  trace 
On  that  hard  and  haughty  face  ; 
And  that  forehead's  knitted  thought 
Love's  soft  hand  hath  not  unwrought. 

"  Yet,"  she  sighs,  "  he  loves  me  well, 
More  than  these  calm  lips  will  tell. 
Stooping  to  my  lowly  state, 
He  hath  made  me  rich  and  great, 
And  I  bless  him,  though  he  be 
Hard  and  stern  to  all  save  me  !  " 

While  she  speaketh,  falls  the  light 
O'er  her  fingers  small  and  white  ; 
Gold  and  gem,  and  costly  ring 
Back  the  timid  lustre  fling,  — 
Love's  selectest  gifts,  and  rare, 
His  proud  hand  had  fastened  there. 

Gratefully  she  marks  the  glow 
From  those  tapering  lines  of  snow  ; 
Fondly  o'er  the  sleeper  bending 
His  black  hair  with  golden  blending, 
In  her  soft  and  light  caress, 
Cheek  and  lip  together  press. 

Ha!  —that  start  of  horror!— Why 
That  wild  stare  and  wilder  cry, 
Full  of  terror,  full  of  pain? 
Is  there  madness  in  her  brain  ? 
Hark  !  that  gasping,  hoarse  and  low, 
"  Spare  me,  —  spare  me, —  let  me  go  !* 

God  have  mercy  !  —  Icy  cold 
Spectral  hands  her  own  enfold, 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND   THE   OLD. 


53 


Drawing  silently  from  them 
Love's  fair  gifts  of  gold  and  gem, 
"  Waken  !  save  me  !  "  still  as  death 
At  her  side  he  slumbereth. 

Ring  and  bracelet  all  are  gone, 

And  that  ice-cold  hand  withdrawn ; 

But  she  hears  a  murmur  low, 

Full  of  sweetness,  full  of  woe, 

Half  a  sigh  and  half  a  moan  : 

"  Fear  not !  give  the  dead  her  own  !  " 

Ah  !  —  the  dead  wife's  voice  sheknows ! 
That  cold  hand,  whose  pressure  froze, 
Once  in  warmest  life  had  borne 
Gem  and  band  her  own  hath  worn. 
"  Wake  thee !  wake  thee !  "  Lo,  his  eyes 
Open  with  a  dull  surprise. 

In  his  arms  the  strong  man  folds  her, 
Closer  to  his  breast  he  holds  her ; 
Trembling  limbs  his  own  are  meeting, 
And  he  feels  her  heart's  quick  beating  : 
"  Nay,  my  dearest,  why  this  fear?  " 
"  Hush  !  "    she    saith,    "  the   dead   is 
here  ! " 

"  Nay,  a  dream,  —  an  idle  dream." 
But  before  the  lamp's  pale  gleam 
Tremblingly  her  hand  she  raises,  — 
There  no  more  the  diamond  blazes, 
Clasp  of  pearl,  or  ring  of  gold,  — 
"Ah!"   she    sighs,    "her    hand   was 
cold  ! " 

Broken  words  of  cheer  he  saith, 
But  his  dark  lip  quivereth, 
And  as  o'er  the  past  he  thinketh, 
S'romhis  youngwife'sarmsheshrinketh ; 


Can  those  soft  arms  round  him  lie, 
Underneath  his  dead  wife's  eye  ? 

She  her  fair  young  head  can  rest 
Soothed  and  childlike  on  his  breast, 
And  in  trustful  innocence 
Draw  new  strength  and  courage  thence  ; 
He,  the  proud  man,  feels  within 
But  the  cowardice  of  sin  ! 

She  can  murmur  in  her  thought 
Simple  prayers  her  mother  taught, 
And  His  blessed  angels  call, 
Whose  great  love  is  over  all  ; 
He,  alone,  in  prayerless  pride, 
Meets  the  dark  Past  at  her  side  ! 

One,  who  living  shrank  with  dread 
From  his  look,  or  word,  or  tread, 
Unto  whom  her  early  grave 
Was  as  freedom  to  the  slave, 
Moves  him  at  this  midnight  hour, 
With  the  dead's  unconscious  power  I 

Ah,  the  dead,  the  unforgot  ! 

From  their  solemn  homes  of  thought, 

Where  the  cypress  shadows  blend 

Darkly  over  foe  and  friend, 

Or  in  love  or  sad  rebuke, 

Back  upon  the  living  look. 

And  the  tenderest  ones  and  weakest, 
Who  their  wrongs  have  borne  the  meek 
est, 

Lifting  from  those  dark,  still  places, 
Sweet  and  sad-remembered  faces, 
O'er  the  guilty  hearts  behind 
An  unwitting  triumph  find. 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 

FROM   1833  TO   1848. 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


FROM    1833   TO   1848. 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE.32 

'T  WAS  night.    The  tranquil  moonlight 
smile 

With  which  Heaven  dreams  of  Earth, 

shed  down 
Its  beauty  on  the  Indian  isle,  — 

On  broad  green  field  and  white-walled 

town ; 

And  inland  waste  of  rock  and  wood, 
In  searching  sunshine,  wild  and  rude, 
Rose,  mellowed  through  the  sil  vergleam, 
Soft  as  the  landscape  of  a  dream, 
All  motionless  and  dewy  wet, 
Tree,  vine,  and  flower  in  shadow  met : 
The  myrtle  with  its  snowy  bloom, 
Crossing     the     nightshade's    solemn 

gloom,  — 

The  white  cecropia's  silver  rind 
Relieved  by  deeper  green  behind,  — 
The  orange  with  its  fruit  of  gold,  — 
The  lithe  paullinia's  verdant  fold,  — 
The  passion-flower,  with  symbol  holy, 
Twining  its  tendrils  long  and  lowly,  — 
The  rhexias  dark,  and  cassia  tall, 
And  proudly  rising  over  all, 
The  kingly  palm's  imperial  stem, 
Crowned  with  its  leafy  diadem, 
Star-like,  beneath  whose  sombre  shade, 
The  fiery-winged  cucullo  played  ! 
Yes,  — lovely  was  thine  aspect,  then, 

Fair  island  of  the  Western  Sea  ! 
Lavish  of  beauty,  even  when 
Thy  brutes  were  happier  than  thy  men, 

For  they,  at  least,  were  free  ! 
Regardless  of  thy  glorious  clime, 

Unmindful  of  thy  soil  of  flowers, 
The  toiling  negro  sighed,  that  Time 

No  faster  sped  his  hours. 
For,  by  the  dewy  moonlight  still, 
He  fed  the  weary-turning  mill, 


Or  bent  him  in  the  chill  morass, 
To  pluck  the  long  and  tangled  grass, 
And  hear  above  his  scar-worn  back 
The  heavy  slave-whip's  frequent  crack ; 
While  in  his  heart  one  evil  thought 
In  solitary  madness  wrought. 
Cue  baleful  fire  surviving  still 

The  quenching  of  the  immortal  mind, 
One  sterner  passion  of  his  kind, 
Which  even  fetters  could  not  kill,  — 
The  savage  hope,  to  deal,  erelong, 
A  vengeance  bitterer  than  his  wrong ! 

Hark  to  that  cry ! — long,  loud,  andshrill, 
From  field  and  forest,  rock  and  hill, 
Thrilling  and  horrible  it  rang, 

Arcmnd,  beneath,  above  ;  — 
The  wild  beast  from  his  cavern  sprang, 

The  wild  bird  from  her  grove  ! 
Nor  fear,  nor  joy,  nor  agony 
Were  mingled  in  that  midnight  cry ; 
But  like  the  lion's  growl  of  wrath. 
When  falJs  that  hunter  in  his  path 
Whose  barbed  arrow,  deeply  set, 
Is  rankling  in  his  bosora  yet, 
It  told  of  hate,  full,  deep,  and  strong, 
Of  vengeance  kindling  out  of  wrong; 
It  was  as  if  the  crimes  of  years  — 
The  unrequited  toil,  the  tears, 
The  shame  and  hate,  which  liken  well 
Earth's  garden  to  the  nether  hell  — 
Had  found  in  nature's  self  a  tongue, 
On  which  the  gathered  horror  hung ; 
As  if  from  cliff,  and  stream,  and  glen 
Burst  on  the  startled  ears  of  men 
That  voice  which  rises  unto  God, 
Solemn  and  stern,  — the  cry  of  blood  ! 
It  ceased,  —  and  all  was  still  once  more, 
Save  ocean  chafing  on  his  shore, 
The  sighing  of  the  wind  between 
The  broad  banana's  leaves  of  green, 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


Or  bough  by  restless  plumage  shook, 
Or  murmuring  voice  of  mountain  brook. 

Brief  was  the  silence.     Once  again 

Pealed  to  the  skies  that  frantic  yell, 
Glowed  on  the  heavens  a  fiery  stain, 

And  flashes  rose  and  fell ; 
And  painted  on  the  blood-red  sky, 
Dark,  naked  arms  were  tossed  on"  high  ; 
And,  round  the  white  man's  lordly  hall, 
Trod,  fierce  and  free,   the  brute  he 

made  ; 

And  those  who  crept  along  the  wall, 
And  answered  to  his  lightest  call 

With  more  than  spaniel  dread,  — 
The  creatures  of  his  lawless  beck,  — 
Were  trampling  on  his  very  neck  ! 
And  on  the  night-air,  wild  and  clear, 
Rose  woman's   shriek   of  more   than 

fear; 
For  bloodied    arms  were    round    her 

thrown, 
And  dark  cheeks  pressed  against  her 

own ! 

Then,  injured  Afric  !  —  for  the  shame 
Of  thy  own  daughters,  vengeance  came 
Full  on  the  scornful  hearts  of  those, 
Who  mocked  thee  in  thy  nameless  woes, 
And  to  thy  hapless  children  gave 
One  choice,  — pollution  or  the  grave  ! 
Where  then  was  he  whose  fiery  zeal 
Had  taught  the  trampled  heart  to  feel, 
Until  despair  itself  grew  strong, 
Andvengeance  fed  its  torch  from  wrong  ? 
iMow,  when  the  thunderbolt  is  speed 
ing. 

Now,  when  oppression's  heart  is  bleed 
ing  '> 
Now,  when  the  latent  curse  of  Time 

Is  raining  down  in  fire  and  blood,  — 
That  curse  which,  through  long  years 

of  crime, 

Has  gathered,  drop  by  drop,  its  flood,  — 
Why  strikes  he  not,  the  foremost  one, 
Where    murder's  sternest    deeds    are 
done? 

He  stood  the  aged  palms  beneath, 
That  shadowed  o'er  his  humble  door, 

"Listening,  with  half-suspended  breath, 

To  the  wild  sounds  of  fear  and  death,  — 
Toussaint  1'Ouverture  ! 

What  marvel  that  his  heart  beat  high  ! 


The  blow  for  freedom  had  been  given, 
And  blood  had  answered  to  the  cry 

Which  Earth  sent  up  to  Heaven  ! 
What  marvel  that  a  fierce  delight 
Smiled  grimly  o'er  his  brow  of  night,  — 
As  groan  and  shout  and  bursting  flame 
Told  where  the  midnight  tempest  came, 
With  blood  and  fire  along  its  van, 
And  death  behind  !  —  he  was  a  Man  ! 

Yes,  dark-souled  chieftain  ! — if  the  light 

Of  mild  Religion's  heavenly  ray 
Unveiled  not  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  lowlier  and  the  purer  way, 
In  which  the  Holy  Sufferer  trod, 

Meekly  amidst  the  sons  of  crime,  — 
That  calm  reliance  upon  God 

For  justice  in  his  own  good  time,  — 
That  gentleness  to  which  belongs 
Forgiveness  for  its  many  wrongs, 
Even  as  the  primal  martyr,  kneeling 
For  mercy  on  the  evil-dealing,  — 
Let  not  the  favored  white  man  name 
Thy  stern  appeal,  with  words  of  blame. 
Has  he  not,  with  the  light  of  heaven 

Broadly  arounfl  him,  made  the  same? 
Yea,  on  his  thousand  war-fields  striven, 

And  gloried  in  his  ghastly  shame  ?— . 
Kneeling  amidst  his  brother's  blood, 
To  offer  mockery  unto  God, 
As  if  the  High  and  Holy  One 
Could  smile  on  deeds  of  murder  done ! — 
As  if  a  human  sacrifice 
Were  purer  in  his  Holy  eyes, 
Though  offered  up  by  Christian  hands, 
Than  the  foul  rites  of  Pagan  lands  ! 


Sternly,  amidst  his  household  band, 
His  carbine  grasped  within  his  hand, 

The  white  man  stood,  prepared  and 

still, 

Waiting  the  shock  of  maddened  men, 
Unchained,  and  fierce  as  tigers,  when 

The  horn  winds  through  their  caverned 

hill. 
And  one  was  weeping  in  his  sight,  — 

The  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  isle,  — 
The  bride  who  seemed  but  yesternight 

Love's  fair  embodied  smile. 
And,  clinging  to  her  trembling  knee 
Looked  up  the  form  of  infancy, 
With  tearful  glance  in  either  face 
The  secret  of  its  fear  to  trace. 


THE  SLAVE-SHIPS. 


59 


"Ha  I  stand  or  die!"  The  white  man's 

eye 

His  steady  musket  gleamed  along, 
As  a  tall  Negro  hastened  nigh, 
With  fearless  step  and  strong. 
"  What,  ho,  Toussaint  ! "     A  moment 

more, 

His  shadow  crossed  the  lighted  floor. 
"  Away  !"  he  shouted  ;  "  fly  with  me,  — 
The  white  man's  bark  is  on  the  sea;  — 
Her  sails  must  catch  the  seaward  wind, 
For  sudden  vengeance  sweeps  behind. 
Our  brethren  from  their  graves  have 

spoken, 
The  yoke    is  spurned,  —  the  chain  is 

broken  ; 

On  all  the  hills  our  fires  are  glowing,  — 
Through  all  the  vales  red  blood  is  flow 
ing  ! 

No  more  the  mocking  White  shall  rest 
His  foot  upon  the  Negro's  breast ; 
No  more,  at  morn  or  eve,  shall  drip 
The  warm  blood  from  the  driver's  whip  : 
Yet,   though  Toussaint  has  vengeance 

sworn 

For  all  the  wrongs  his  race  have  borne,  — 
Though  for  each  drop  of  Negro  blood 
Thewhite  man's  veins  shall  pour  aflood; 
Not  all  alone  the  sense  of  ill 
Around  his  heart  is  lingering  still, 
Nor  deeper  can  the  white  man  feel 
The  generous  warmth  of  grateful  zeal. 
Friends  of  the  Negro  !  fly  with  me,  — 
The  path  is  open  to  the  sea  : 
Away,  for  life ! "  —  He  spoke,  and  pressed 
The  young  child  to  his  manly  breast, 
As,  headlong,  through  the  cracking  cane, 
Down  swept  the  dark  insurgent  train,  — 
Drunken  and  grim,  with  shout  and  yell 
Howled  through  the  dark,  like  sounds 

from  hell. 

Far  out,  in  peace,  the  white  man's  sail 
Swayed  free  before  the  sunrise  gale. 
Cloud-like  that  island  hung  afar, 

Along  the  bright  horizon's  verge, 
O'er  which  the  curse  of  servile  war 

Rolled  its  red  torrent,  surge  on  surge  ; 
And  he  —  the  Negro  champion  —  where 

In  the  fierce  tumult  struggled  he  ? 
Go  trace  him  by  the  fiery  glare 
Of  dwellings  in  the  midnight  air,  — 
The  yells  of  triumph  and  despair,  — 

The  streams  that  crimson  to  the  sea  ! 


Sleep  calmly  in  thy  dungeon-tomb, 

Beneath  Besan^on's  alien  sky, 
Dark   Haytien  ! — for  the   time    shall 

come, 

Yea,  even  now  is  nigh,  — 
When,  everywhere,  thy  name  shall  be 
Redeemed  from  color's  infamy  ; 
And  men  shall  learn  to  speak  of  thee, 
As  one  of  earth's  great  spirits,  born 
In  servitude,  and  nursed  in  scorn, 
Casting  aside  the  weary  weight 
And  fetters  of  its  low  estate, 
In  that  strong  majesty  of  soul 

Which  knows  no  color,  tongue,  or 

clime,  — 

Which  still  hath  spurned  the  base  con 
trol 

Of  tyrants  through  all  time  ! 
Far  other  hands  than  mine  may  wreath 
The  laurel  round  thy  brow  of  death, 
And  speak  thy  praise,  as  one  whose  word 
A  thousand  fiery  spirits  stirred,  — 
Who  crushed  his  foeman  as  a  worm,  — 
Whose    step    on    human    hearts    fell 

firm:  — 33 

Be  mine  the  better  task  to  find 
A  tribute  for  thy  lofty  mind, 
Amidst  whose  gloomy  vengeance  shone 
Some  milder  virtues  all  thine  own,  — 
Some  gleams  of  feeling  pure  and  warm, 
Like  sunshine  on  a  sky  of  storm,  — 
Proofs  that  the  Negro's  heart  retains 
Some  nobleness  amidst  its  chains,  — 
That  kindness  to  the  wronged  is  never 

Without  its  excellent  reward,  — 
Holy  to  human-kind,  and  ever 

Acceptable  to  God. 


THE   SLAVE-SHIPS^* 

"  That  fatal,  that  perfidious  bark, 
Built  i'  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses 
dark." 

Milton's  Lycidas. 

"  ALL  ready  ?  "  cried  the  captain  ; 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  the  seamen  said  ; 
"  Heave  up  the  worthless  lubbers,  — 

The  dying  and  the  dead." 
Up  from  the  slave-ship's  prison 

Fierce,  bearded  heads  were  thrust : 
"  Now  let  the  sharks  look  to  it,  — 

Toss  up  the  dead  ones  first !  " 


Go 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


Corpse  after  corpse  came  up,  — 

Death  had  been  busy  there  ; 
Where  every  blow  is  mercy, 

Why  should  the  spoiler  spare  ? 
Corpse  after  corpse  they  cast 

Sullenly  from  the  ship, 
Yet  bloody  with  the  traces 

Of  fetter-link  and  whip. 

iGloomily  stood  the  captain, 

I     With  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 

\With  his  cold  brow  sternly  knotted, 

And  his  iron  lip  compressed. 
"  Are  all  the  dead  dogs  over  ?  " 

Growled  through  that  matted  lip,  — 

I"  The  blind  ones  are  no  better, 
Let's  lighten  the  good  ship." 

Hark  !  from  the  ship's  dark  bosom, 

The  very  sounds  of  hell  ! 
The  ringing  clank  of  iron,  — 

The  maniac's  short,  sharp  yell  !  — 
The  hoarse,  low  curse,  throat-stifled,  — 

The  starving  infant's  moan,  — 
The  horror  of  a  breaking  heart 

Poured  through  a  mother's  groan. 

Up  from  that  loathsome  prison 

The  stricken  blind  ones  came  : 
Below,  had  all  been  darkness,  — 

Above,  was  still  the  same. 
Yet  the  holy  breath  of  heaven 

Was  sweetly  breathing  there, 
And  the  heated  brow  of  fever 

Cooled  in  the  soft  sea  air. 

"  Overboard  with  them,  shipmates  ! " 

Cutlass  and  dirk  were  plied  ; 
Fettered  and  blind,  one  after  one, 

Plunged  down  the  vessel's  side. 
The  sabre  smote  above,  — 

Beneath,  the  lean  shark  lay, 
Waiting  with  wide  and  bloody  jaw 

His  quick  and  human  prey. 

God  of  the  earth  !  what  cries 

Rang  upward  unto  thee? 
Voices  of  agony  and  blood, 

From  ship-deck  and  from  sea. 
The  last  dull  plunge  was  heard,  — 

The  last  wave  caught  its  stain,  — 
And  the  unsated  shark  looked  up 

For  human  hearts  in  vain. 


Red  glowed  the  western  waters,  — 
*•   The  setting  sun  was  there, 
Scattering  alike  on  wave  and  cloud 

His  fiery  mesh  of  hair. 
Amidst  a  group  in  blindness, 

A  solitary  eye 
Gazed,  from  the  burdened  slaver's  deck, 

Into  that  burning  sky. 

"A  storm,"  spoke  out  the  gazer, 

"  Is  gathering  and  at  hand,  — 
Curse  on  't  —  I  'd  give  my  other  eye 

For  one  firm  rood  of  land." 
And  then  he  laughed,  —  but  only 

His  echoed  laugh  replied,  — 
For  the  blinded  and  the  suffering 

Alone  were  at  his  side. 

Night  settled  on  the  waters, 

And  on  a  stormy  heaven, 
While  fiercely  on  that  lone  ship's  track 

The  thunder-gust  was  driven. 
"  A  sail  !  —  thank  God,  a  sail  !  " 

And  as  the  helmsman  spoke, 
Up  through  the  stormy  murmur 

A  shout  of  gladness  broke. 

Down  came  the  stranger  vessel, 

Unheeding  on  her  way, 
So  near,  that  on  the  slaver's  deck 

Fell  off  her  driven  spray. 
"  Ho  !  for  the  love  of  mercy,  — 

We  're  perishing  and  blind  !  " 
A  wail  of  utter  agony 

Came  back  upon  the  wind  : 

"  Help  us !  for  we  are  stricken 

With  blindness  every  one  ; 
Ten  days  we  've  floated  fearfully, 

Unnoting  star  or  sun. 
Our  ship  's  the  slaver  Leon,  — 

We  've  but  a  score  on  board,  — 
Our  slaves  are  all  gone  over,  — 

Help,  —  for  the  love  of  God  ! " 

On  livid  brows  of  agony 

The  broad  red  lightning  shone,  — 
But  the  roar  of  wind  and  thunder 

Stifled  the  answering  groan 
Wailed  from  the  broken  waters 

A  last  despairing  cry, 
As,  kindling  in  the  stormy  light, 

The  stranger  ship  went  by. 


STANZAS. 


In  the  sunny  Guadaloupe 

A  dark-hulled  vessel  lay,  — 
With  a  crew  who  noted  never 

The  nightfall  or  the  day. 
The  blossom  of  the  orange 

Was  white  by  every  stream, 
And  tropic  leaf,  and  flower,  and  bird 

Were  in  the  warm  sunbeam. 

And  the  sky  was  bright  as  ever, 

And  the  moonlight  slept  as  well, 
On  the  palm-trees  by  the  hillside, 

And  the  streamlet  of  the  dell : 
And  the  glances  of  the  Creole 

Were  still  as  archly  deep, 
And  her  smiles  as  full  as  ever 

Of  passion  and  of  sleep. 

But  vain  were  bird  and  blossom, 

The  green  earth  and  the  sky, 
And  the  smile  of  human  faces, 

To  the  slaver's  darkened  eye  ; 
At  the  breaking  of  the  morning, 

At  the  star-lit  evening  time, 
O'er  a  world  of  light  and  beauty 

Fell  the  blackness  of  his  crime. 


STANZAS. 

["  The  despotism  which  our  fathers 
could  not  hear  in  their  native  country  is 
expiring,  and  the  sword  of  justice  in  her 
reformed  hands  has  applied  its  extermi 
nating  edge  to  slavery.  Shall  the  United 
States  — the  free  United  States,  which 
could  not  bear  the  bonds  of  a  king  —  cradle 
the  bondage  which  a  king  is  abolishing? 
Shall  a  Republic  be  less  free  than  a  Mon 
archy?  Shall  we,  in  the  vigor  and  buoy 
ancy  of  our  manhood,  be  less  energetic 
in  righteousness  than  a  kingdom  in  its 
age  ?  "  —  Dr.  Fallen's  Address. 

"  Genius  of  America!  —  Spirit  of  our  free 
institutions!  —  where  art  thou? —  How  art 
thou  fallen,  O  Lucifer!  son  of  the  morning, 
—  how  art  thou  fallen  from  Heaven!  Hell 
from  beneath  is  moved  for  thee,  to  meet 
thee  at  thy  coming!  —  The  kings  of  the 
earth  cry  out  to  thee,  Aha!  Aha!  —  ART 
THOU  KKCOME  LIKE  UNTO  us ! "  —  Speech 
of  Samuel  J.  JUay+ 

OUR  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  : 
Slaves —  in  a  land  of  light  and  law  i 

Slaves  —  crouching  on  the  very  plains 
Where  rolled  the  storm  of  Freedom's 
war! 


A  groan  from  Eutaw's  haunted  wood,  — 
A  wail    where     Camden's    martyrs 

.     fell,— 
By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 

From   Moultrie's  wall  and  Jasper's 
well! 

By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot, 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 
Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 
And    hurrying    shout    of    Marion's 

men ! 

The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there,  — 

The  falling  lash,  —  the  fetter's  clank  ! 

Slaves,  —  SLAVES  are  breathing  in  that 

air, 

Which  old    De  Kalb  and    Sumter 
drank ! 

What,  ho  !  — oztr  countrymen  in  chains  ! 
The    whip    on  WOMAN'S   shrinking 

flesh! 

Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains 
Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm  and 

fresh  ! 
What !    mothers  from   their  -children 

riven  ! 
What !  God's  own  image  bought  and 

sold! 

AMERICANS  to  market  driven, 
And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold  I 

Speak  !  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 

Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain  ? 
To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 

The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain  ; 
To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 

Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light,  — 
Say,    shall    these  writhing    slaves    of 
Wrong, 

Plead    vainly    for    their    plundered 
Right? 

What !    shall    we   send,    with    lavisfc 

breath, 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 
Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom  or  a  grave  ? 
Shall  prayers  go  up,   and   hymns  be 

sung 

For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  spurn 
ing, 

And  millions  hail  with  pen  and  tongue 
Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning  ? 


62 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By  Vendome's  pile  and  Schoenbrun's 

wall, 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance, 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call  ? 
And  shall  the  SLAVE,  beneath  our  eye, 

Clank    o'er  our  fields    his    hateful 

chain  ? 
And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 

And  groan  for  Freedom's  gift,  in  vain  ? 

O,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 

A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave  ? 
And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 

By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave? 
And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 

Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 
And  bid  his  bondmen  cast  the  chain, 

From  fettered  soul  and  limb,  aside  ? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 

Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free, 
From  "  farthest  Ind  "  to  each  blue  crag 

That  beetles  o'er  the  Western  Sea ? 
And  shall  we  scoff  at  Europe's  kings, 

When 'Freedom's  fire  is  dim  with  us, 
And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 

The    damning    shade    of   Slavery's 
curse  ? 

Go  —  let  us  ask  of  Constantine 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland's  throat ; 
And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote,  — 
Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From   turbaned  Turk,  and  scornful 

Russ: 
"  Go,  loose  your  fettered  slaves  at  home, 

Then  turn,  and  ask  the  like  of  us ! " 

Just  God  !  and  shall  we  calmly  rest, 
The    Christian's    scorn,  —  the    hea 
then's  mirth,  — 
Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  by-word  of  a  mocking  Earth  ? 
Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 
That  curse  which  Europe  scorns  to 

bear? 

Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain 
Which  not  even    Russia's   menials 
wear  ? 

Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part, 
From  graybeard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 


And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 
Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth  ! 

Up,  —  while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 
The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing  ! 

Up,  —  while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 
In  blood,  around  our  altars  flowing  ! 

Oh !   rouse  ye,   ere   the  storm   comes 
forth,  — 

The    gathered   wrath    of   God   and 

man,  — 
Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 
Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air? 

Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath? 
Up,  —  up  !  why  will  ye  slumber  where 

The  sleeper  only  w'akes  in  death  ? 

Up  now  for  Freedom  !  —  not  in  strife 

Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw,  — 
The  awful  waste  of  human  life,  — 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war  : 
But  break  the  chain,  —  the  yoke  remove, 

And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod, 
With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and 
Love, 

Made  mighty  through  the  living  God ! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood  ; 
Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood  ; 
But  rear  another  altar  there, 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given, 
And   Freedom's  gift,    and   Freedom's 
prayer, 

Shall  call  an  answer  down  from  Heav 
en  ! 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL. 

SHE  sings  by  her  wheel  at  that  low 

cottage-door, 
Which   the   long   evening    shadow  is 

stretching  before, 
With  a  music  as  sweet  as  the  music 

which  seems 
Breathed  softly  and  faint  in  the  ear  of 

our  dreams  ! 

How  brilliant  and  mirthful  the  light  of 

her  eye, 
Like  a  star  glancing  out  from  the  blue 

of  the  sky  ! 


TO   W.   L.   G. 


And  lightly  and  freely  her  dark  tresses 

play 
O'er  a  brow  and  a  bosom  as  lovely  as 

they  ! 

Who   comes  in  his   pride  to  that  low 

cottage-door,  — 
The  haughty  and  rich  to  the  humble 

and  poor  ? 
'T  is  the  great  Southern  planter,  —  the 

master  who  waves 
His  whip  of  dominion  o'er  hundreds  of 

slaves. 

"  Nay,  Ellen,  —  for  shame  !     Let  those 

Yankee  fools  spin, 
Who  would  pass  for  our  slaves  with  a 

change  of  their  skin  ; 
Let  them  toil  as  they  will  at  the  loom 

or  the  wheel, 
Too  stupid  for  shame,  and  too  vulgar  to 

feell 

"  But  thou  art  too  lovely  and  precious  a 
gem 

To  be  bound  to  their  burdens  and  sul 
lied  by  them,  — 

For  shame,  Ellen,  shame,  —  cast  thy 
bondage  aside, 

And  away  to  the  South,  as  my  blessing 
and  pride. 

'  O,  come  where  no  winter  thy  footsteps 

can  wrong, 
But  where  flowers  are  blossoming  all 

the  year  long, 
Where  the  shade  of  the  palm-tree  is 

over  my  home, 
And  the  lemon  and  orange  are  white  in 

their  bloom  ! 

"  O,  come  to  my  home,  where  my  ser 
vants  shall  all 

Depart  at  thy  bidding  and  come  at  thy 
call; 

They  shall  heed  thee  as  mistress  with 
trembling  and  awe, 

And  each  wish  of  thy  heart  shall  be  felt 
as  a  law." 

O,  could  ye  have  seen  her  —  that  pride 

of  our  girl's  — 
Arise  and  cast  back  the  dark  wealth  of 

her  curls, 


With  a  scorn  in  her  eye  which  the  gazer 

could  feel, 
And  a  glance  like   the  sunshine  that 

flashes  on  steel ! 

"  Go  back,    haughty    Southron !    thy 

treasures  of  gold 
Are  dim  with  the  blood  of  the  hearts 

thou  hast  sold  ; 
Thy  home  may  be  lovely,  but  round  it 

I  hear 
The  crack  of  the  whip  and  the  footsteps 

of  fear ! 

"  And  the  sky  of  thy  South  may  be 
brighter  than  ours, 

And  greener  thy  landscapes,  and  fairer 
thy  flowers ; 

But  dearer  the  blast  round  our  moun 
tains  which  raves, 

Than  the  sweet  summer  zephyr  which 
breathes  over  slaves  ! 

"Full  low  at  thy  bidding  thy  negroes 

may  kneel, 
With  the  iron  of  bondage  on  spirit  and 

heel  ; 
Yet  know  that  the  Yankee  girl  sooner 

would  be 
In  fetters  with  them,  than  in  freedom 

with  thee  !  " 


TO  W.   L.   G. 

CHAMPION  of  those  who  groan  beneath 

Oppression's  iron  hand : 
In  view  of  penury,  hate,  and  death, 

I  see  thee  fearless  stand. 
Still  bearing  up  thy  lofty  brow, 

In  the  steadfast  strength  of  truth, 
In  manhood  sealing  well  the  vow 

And  promise  of  thy  youth. 

Go  on,  — for  thou  hast  chosen  well ; 

On  in  the  strength  of  God  ! 
Long  as  one  human  heart  shall  swell 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  rod. 
Speak  in  a  slumbering  nation's  ear, 

As  thou  hast  ever  spoken, 
Until  the  dead  in  sin  shall  hear,  — 

The  fetter's  link  be  broken  I 


64 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


I  love  thee  with  a  brother's  love, 

I  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 

The  cloud  of  human  ill. 
My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer  thine, 

And  echo  back  thy  words, 
As  leaps  the  warrior's  at  the  shine 

And  flash  of  kindred  swords  ! 

They  tell  me  thou  art  rash  and  vain  — 

A  searcher  after  fame ; 
That  thou  art  striving  but  to  gain 

A  long-enduring  name  ; 
That  thou  hast  nerved  the  Afric's  hand 

And  steeled  the  Afric's  heart, 
To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart 

Have  I  not  known  thee  well,  and  read 

Thy  mighty  purpose  long  ? 
And  watched  the  trials  which  have  made 

Thy  human  spirit  strong  ? 
And  shall  the  slanderers  demon  breath 

Avail  with  one  like  me, 
To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 

And  earnest  trust  in  thee  ? 

Go  on,  — the  dagger's  point  may  glare 

Amid  thy  pathway's  gloom,  — 
The  fate  which  sternly  threatens  there 

Is  glorious  martyrdom ! 
Then  onward  with  a  martyr's  zeal ; 

And  wait  thy  sure  reward 
When  man  to  man  no  more  shall  kneel, 

And  God  alone  be  Lord  ! 

1833- 


SONG  OF  THE   FREE, 

PRIDE  of  New  England  1 

Soul  of  our  fathers  ! . 
Shrink  we  all  craven-like, 

When  the  storm  gathers  ? 
What  though  the  tempest  be 

Over  us  lowering, 
Where  's  the  New-Englander 

Shamefully  cowering  ? 
Graves  green  and  holy 

Around  us  are  lying,  — 
Free  were  the  sleepers  all, 

Living  and  dying  t 

Back  with  the  Southerner's 
Padlocks  and  scourges  1 


Go,  —  let  him  fetter  down 

Ocean's  free  surges  I 
Go,  — let  him  silence 

Winds,  clouds,  and  waters, 
Never  New  England's  own 

Free  sons-  and  daughters  ! 
Free  as  our  rivers  are 

Ocean-ward  going,  — 
Free  as  the  breezes  are 

Over  us  blowing. 

Up  to  our  altars,  then, 

Haste  we,  and  summon 
Courage  and  loveliness, 

Manhood  and  woman  ! 
Deep  let  our  pledges  be  : 

Freedom  forever ! 
Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  oh  !  never  I 
By  our  own  birthright-gift, 

Granted  of  Heaven,  — 
Freedom  for  heart  and  lip, 

Be  the  pledge  given  I 

If  we  have  whispered  truth, 

Whisper  no  longer ; 
Speak  as  the  tempest  does, 

Sterner  and  stronger  ; 
Still  be  the  tones  of  truth 

Louder  and  firmer, 
Startling  the  haughty  South 

With  the  deep  murmur; 
God  and  our  charter's  right,' 

Freedom  forever  ! 
Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  oh  1  never  1 

1836. 


THE   HUNTERS  OF  MEN. 

HAVE  ye  heard  of  our  hunting,   o'er 

mountain  and  glen, 
Through  cane-brake  and  forest,  —  the 

hunting  of  men  ? 
The  lords  of  our  land  to  this  hunting 

have  gone, 
As  the  fox-hunter  follows  the  sound  of 

the  horn  ; 
Hark  !  —the  cheer  and  the  hallo  !  —  the 

crack  of  the  whip, 
And  the  yell  of  the  hound  as  he  fastens 

his  grip  ! 


CLERICAL   OPPRESSORS. 


All  blithe  arc  our  hunters,  and  noble 
their  match,  — 

Though  hundreds  arc  caught,  there  are 
millions  to  catch. 

So  speed  to  their  hunting,  o'er  moun 
tain  and  glen, 

Through  cane-brake  and  forest,  —  the 
hunting  of  men  ! 

Gay  luck  to  our  hunters  !  —  how  nobly 

they  ride 
In    the   glow   of  their  zeal,    and   the 

strength  of  their  pride  !  — 
The  priest  with  his  cassock  flung  back 

on  the  wind, 
Just    screening   the   politic   statesman 

behind,  — 
The  saint  and  the  sinner,  with  cursing 

and  prayer,  — 
The  drunk  and  the  sober,  ride  merrily 

there. 
And   woman,  —  kind  woman,  —  wife, 

widow,  and  maid, 
For  the  good  of  the  hunted,  is  lending 

her  aid  : 
Her  foot 's  in  the  stirrup,  her  hand  on 

the  rein, 
How  blithely  she  rides  to  the  hunting 

of  men  ! 

O,    goodly  and  grand  is  our   hunting 

to  see, 
In   this   "land   of  the  brave  and  this 

home  of  the  free." 
Priest,    warrior,    and   statesman,    from 

Georgia  to  Maine, 

All  mounting  the  saddle,  — all  grasp 
ing  the  rein,  — 
Right  merrily  hunting  the  black  man,  | 

whose  sin 
Is  the  curl  of  his  hair  and  the  hue  of! 

his  skin  ! 
Woe,  now,  to  the   hunted  who   turns 

him  at  bay ! 
Will  our  hunters  be  turned  from  their 

purpose  and  prey  ? 
Will  their  hearts 'fail  within  them?  — 

their  nerves  tremble,  when 
All  roughly  they  ride  to  the  hunting  of 

men  ? 

Ho  !  —  ALMS  for  our  hunters  !  all  weary 

and  faint, 
Wax  the  curse  of  the  sinner  and  prayer 

of  the  saint. 


The  horn  is  wound  faintly,  —  the  echoes 
are  still, 

Over  cane-brake  and  river,  and  forest 
and  hill. 

Haste, — alms  for  our  hunters !  the  hunt 
ed  once  more 

Have  turned  from  their  flight  with  their 
backs  to  the  shore  : 

What  right  have  they  here  in  the  home  4 
of  the  white, 

Shadowed  o'er  by  our  banner  of  Free-l| 
dom  and  Right  ? 

Ho  !' — alms  for  the  hunters  !  or  never 
again 

Will  they  ride  in  their  pomp  to  the  hunt 
ing  of  men  ! 

ALMS,  —  ALMS  for  our   hunters  !  why 

will  ye  delay, 
When  their  pride  and  their  glory  are 

melting  away  ? 
The  parson  has  turned  ;  for,  on  charge 

of  his  own, 

Whogoeth  a  warfare,  or  hunting,  alone? 
The  politic  statesman  looks  back  with 

a  sigh,  — 
There  is  doubt  in  his  heart,  —  there  is 

fear  in  his  eye. 
O,haste,  lestthatdoubtingand  fear  shall 

prevail, 
And  the  head  of  his  steed  take  the  place 

of  the  tail. 
O,  haste,  ere  he  leave  us  !  for  who  will 

ride  then, 
For  pleasure  or  gain,  to  the  hunting  of 

men? 

1835- 


CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS. 

[Tn  the  report  of  the  celebrated  pro- 
slavery  meetinjr  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  on 
the  4th  of  the  Oth  month,  IH'Vi,  pul.Hshed  in 
the  Courier  of  that  city,  it  is  stated,  "  The 
CLERGY  of  all  denominations  altcnrfed 
inaborh/,  LEXDIXO  TTIKIR  SANCTION  TO 
TIIK  I'KOCKKIMX<;S,  ami  adding  by  their 
presence  to  the  impressive  character  of  the 
scene  !  "J 

JUST  God  !  —  and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  thine   altar,    God   of 
Right  I 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and 

blessing  lay 
On  Israel's  Ark  of  light  ! 

What  !  preach  and  kidnap  men  ? 
Give  thanks, — and  rob  thy  own  afflicted 

poor? 
Talk  of  thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 

Bolt  hard  the  captive's  door  ? 

What !  servants  of  thy  own 
Merciful  Son,  who  came  to  seek  and  save 
The   homeless  and  the  outcast,  —  fet 
tering  down 

The  tasked  and  plundered  slave  ! 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friends  ! 
Chief  priests  and  rulers,  as  of  old,  com 
bine  ! 
Just  God  and  holy !  is  that  church,  which 

lends 
Strength  to  the  spoiler,  thine  ? 

Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment  aside,  and  rob  the  Holy  Book 
Of  those  high  words  of  truth  which 
search  and  burn 

In  warning  and  rebuke ; 

Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed  I 
And,  in  your  tasselled  pulpits,  thank 

the  Lord 
That,  from  the  toiling  bondman's  utter 

need, 
Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 

How  long,  O  Lord  !  how  long 
Shall  such  a  priesthood  barter  truth 

away, 
And    in   thy   name,   for  robbery   and 

wrong 
At  thy  own  altars  pray  ? 

Is  not  thy  hand  stretched  forth 
Visibly  in   the   heavens,  to   awe   and 

smite? 
Shall  not  the  living  God  of  all  the  earth, 

And  heaven  above,  do  right  ? 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their  brethren   of  a  common   Father 

down  ! 
To  all  who  plunder  from  the  immortal 

mind 
Its  bright  and  glorious  crown  ! 


Woe  to  the  priesthood  !  woe 
To  those  whose  hire  is  with  the  price  of 

blood,  — 
Perverting,    darkening,    changing,    as 

they  go, 
The  searching  truths  of  God  ! 

Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall  perish  ;  and  their  very  names  shall 

be 
Vik  before  all  the  people,  in  the  light 

Of  a  world's  liberty. 

O,  speed  the  moment  on 
When  Wrong  shall  cease,  and  Liberty 

and  Love 
And  Truth  and  Right  throughout  the 

earth  be  known 
As  in  their  home  above. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SLAVE. 

[Tn  a  late  publication  ofL.  T.  Tasistro,— 
"Random  Shots  and  Southern  Breezes," — 
is  a  description  of  a  slave  auction  at  New 
Orleans,  at  ivhich  the  auctioneer  recom 
mended  the  woman  on  the  stand  as  "A 
GOOD  CHKISTIAX  !"] 

A  CHRISTIAN  !  going,  gone  ! 
Who  bids  for  God's  own  image  ?  —  for 

his  grace, 

Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market 
place 
Hath  in  her  suffering  won  ? 

My  God  \  can  such  things  be  ? 
Hast  thou  not  said  that  whatsoe'er  is 

done 
Unto  thy  weakest  and  thy  humblest  one 

Is  even  done  to  thee  ? 

In  that  sad  victim,  then, 
Child   of  thy  pitying  love,  I  see  thee 

stand,  — 
Once  more  the  jest-word  of  a  mocking 

band, 
Bound,  sold,  and  scourged  again  I 

A  Christian  up  for  sale  ! 
Wet  with  her  blood  your  whips,  o'er- 
task  her  frame, 


STANZAS  FOR    THE    TIMES. 


Make  her  life  loathsome    with    your 

wrong  and  shame, 
Her  patience  shall  not  fail  ! 

A  heathen  hand  might  deal 
Back  on  your  heads  the  gathered  wrong 

of  years : 
But  her  low,  broken  prayer  and  nightly 

tears, 
Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel. 

Con  well  thy  lesson  o'er, 
Thou  prudent  teacher,  —  tell  the  toil 
ing  slave 
No  dangerous  tale  of  Him  who  came  to 

save 
The  outcast  and  the  poor. 

But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God's  free  Gospel  from  her  simple 

heart, 
And  to  her  darkened  mind  alone  impart 

One  stern  command,  —  OBEY  ! 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The  market  price  of  human  flesh  ;  and 

while 
On   thee,    their  pampered  guest,    the 

planters  smile, 
Thy  church  shall  praise. 

Grave,  reverend  men  shall  tell 
Fvom  Northern  pulpits  how  thy  work 

was  blest, 
While  in  that  vile  South  Sodorn   first 

and  best, 
Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 

O,  shame  !  the  Moslem  thrall, 
Who,  with  his  master,  to  the  Prophet 

kneels, 
While  turning  to  the  sacred  Kebla  feels 

His  fetters  break  and  fall. 

.     Cheers  for  the  turban ed  Bey 
Of  robber-peopled  Tunis  !  he  hath  torn 
The   dark   slave-dungeons    open,    and 

hath  borne 
Their  inmates  into  day  ; 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 
Turns  to  the  Christian  shrine  his  ach 
ing  eyes,  — 
Its  riles  will  only  swell  his  market  price, 

And  rivet  on  his  chain. 


God  of  all  right !  how  long 
Shall   priestly    robbers  at    thine  altar 

stand, 
Lifting  in  prayer  to   thee,  the  bloody 

hand 
And  haughty  brow  of  wrong? 

O,  from  the  fields  of  cane, 
From  the   low  rice-swamp,   from    the 

trader's  cell,  — 
From  the  black  slave-ship's  foul  and 

loathsome  hell, 
And  coffle's  weary  chain,  — 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong, 
Rises  to  Heaven  that  agonizing  cry, 
Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky, 

HOW  LONG,  O  GOD,  HOW  LONG?   | 


STANZAS   FOR  THE   TIMES. 

Is  this  the  land  our  fathers  loved, 
.  The  freedom   which  they  toiled  to 

win? 

Is  this  the  soil  whereon  they  moved  ? 
Are  these  the  graves   they  slumber 

in? 

Are  ive  the  sons  by  whom  are  borne 
The    mantles    which    the    dead    have 
worn  ? 

And  shall  we  crouch  above  these  graves, 
With  craven  soul  and  fettered  lip? 

Yoke  in  with  markedandbranded  slaves, 
And  tremble  at  the  driver's  whip  ? 

Bend  to  the  earth  our  pliant  knees, 

And  speak  —  but  as  our  masters  please  ? 

Shall  outraged  Nature  cease  to  feel  ? 

Shall  Mercy's  tears  no  longer  flow? 
Shall  ruffian  threats  of  cord  and  steel,  — 

The  dungeon's  gloom,  —  the   assas 
sin's  blow, 

Turn  back  the  spirit  roused  to  save 
The  Truth,  our  Country,  and  the  Slave? 

Of  human  skulls  that  shrine  was  made, 
Round  which  the  priests  of  Mexico 

Before  their  loathsome  idol  prayed  ;  — 
Is  Freedom's  altar  fashioned  so? 

And  must  we  yield  to  Freedom's  God, 

As  offering  meet,  the  negro's  blood? 


68 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


Shall  tongues  be  mute,  when  deeds  are 

wrought 

Which  well  might  shame  extremest 
hell  ? 

Shall     freemen     lock     the     indignant 

thought  ? 
Shall  Pity's  bosom  cease  to  swell  ? 

Shall  Honor  bleed?— shall  Truth  suc 
cumb? 

Shall  pen,  and  press,  and  soul  be  dumb? 

No  ;  —  by  each  spot  of  haunted  ground, 
Where  Freedom  weeps  her  children's 

fall,— 
By    Plymouth's    rock,    and    Bunker's 

mound,  — 
By  Griswold's  stained  and  shattered 

wall,  — 
By    Warren's    ghost, — by  Langdon's 

shade,  — 
By  all  the  memories  of  our  dead  ! 

By  their  enlarging  souls,  which  burst 
The  bands  and  fetters  round  them 
set.  — 

By  the  free  Pilgrim  spirit  nursed 
Within  our  inmost  bosoms,  yet,  — 

By  all  above,  around,  below, 

Be  ours  the  indignant  answer,  —  NO  ! 

No  ;  —  guided  by  our  country's  laws, 
For  truth,   and  right,  and  suffering 

man, 

Be  ours  to  strive  in  Freedom's  cause, 
As    Christians    may,  —  as    freemen 

can  ! 

Still  pouring  on  unwilling  ears 
That  truth  oppression  only  fears. 

What !  shall  we    guard  our  neighbor 

still, 
While   woman   shrieks  beneath   his 

rod, 
And  while  he  tramples  down  at  will 

The  image  of  a  common  God  ! 
Shall  watch  and  ward  be  round  him  set, 
Of  Northern  nerve  and  bayonet  ? 

And  shall  we  know  and  share  with  him 
The  danger  and  the  growing  shame  ? 

And  see  our  Freedom's  light  grow  dim, 
Which  should  have  filled  the  world 
with  flame? 

And,  writhing,  feel,  where'er  we  turn, 

A  world's  reproach  around  us  burn  ? 


Is 't  not  enough  that  this  is  borne  ? 

And  asks  our  haughty  neighbor  more  ? 

Must  fetters  which  his  slaves  have  worn 

Clank   round  the   Yankee    farmer's 

door? 

Must  he  be  told,  beside  his  plough, 
What  he  must  speak,  and  when,  and 
how  ? 

Must  he  be  told  his  freedom  stands 
On      Slavery's      dark     foundations 
strong,  — 

On  breaking  hearts  and  fettered  hands, 
On  robbery,  and  crime,  and  wrong  ? 

That  all  his  fathers  taught  is  vain,  — 

That  Freedom's  emblem  is  the  chain  ? 

Its  life,  its  soul,  from  slavery  drawn  ? 
False,  foul,  profane  !    Go,  —  teach  as 

well 

Of  holy  Truth  from  Falsehood  born  ! 
Of  Heaven   refreshed  by  airs  from 

Hell  ! 

Of  Virtue  in  the  arms  of  Vice  ! 
Of  Demons  planting  Paradise  ! 

Rail    on,     then,    "  brethren    of    the 

South,"  — 

Ye  shall  not  hear  the  truth  the  less  ; — 
No  seal  is  on  the  Yankee's  mouth, 
No  fetter  on  the  Yankee's  press  ! 
From  our  Green  Mountains  to  the  sea, 
One  voice   shall   thunder,  —  WE  ARE 
FREE  ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  READING  THE  MESSAGE 
OF  GOVERNOR  RITNER,  OF  PENN 
SYLVANIA,  1836. 

THANK  God  for  the  token  !  —  one  lip 
is  still  free,  — 

One  spirit  untrammelled,  —  unbending 
one  knee  ! 

Like  the  oak  of  the  mountain,  deep- 
rooted  and  firm, 

Erect,  when  the  multitude  bends  to  the 
storm  ; 

When  traitors  to  Freedom,  and  Honor, 

and  God, 
Are  bowed  at  an   Idol   polluted  with 

blood  ; 


LINES. 


69 


When  the  recreant  North  has  forgotten 
her  trust, 

And  the  lip  of  her  honor  is  low  in  the 
dust,  — 

Thank  God,  that  one  arm  from  the 
shackle  has  broken  ! 

Thank  God,  that  one  man  as  a  free 
man  has  spoken  ! 

O'er  thy  crags,  Alleghany,  a  blast  has 

been  blown  ! 

Down  thy  tide,  Susquehanna,  the  mur 
mur  has  gone  ! 
To  the  land  of  the   South,  —  of  the 

charter  and  chain,  — 
Of  Liberty   sweetened   with  Slavery's 

pain  ; 
Where  the  cant  of  Democracy  dwells 

on  the  lips 
Of  the  forgers  of  fetters,  and  wielders 

of  whips  ! 
Where  "  chivalric  "  honor  means  really 

no  more 
Then  scourging  of  women,  and  robbing 

the  poor  ! 
Where  the  Moloch  of  Slavery  sitteth 

on  high, 
And  the  words  which  he  utters,  are  — 

WORSHIP,  OR  DIE  ! 

Right  onward,  O  speed  it !   Wherever 

the  blood 
Of  the   wronged   and  the  guiltless  is 

crying  to  God  ; 

Wherever  a  slave  in  his  fetters  is  pin 
ing  ; 
Wherever  the  lash  of  the    driver  is 

twining ; 
Wherever  from    kindred,    torn   rudely 

apart, 
Comes  the  sorrowful  wail  of  the  broken 

of  heart  ; 

Wherever  the  shackles  of  tyranny  bind, 
In  silence  and  darkness,  the  God-given 

mind  ; 
There,    God    speed    it    onward  !  —  its 

truth  will  be  felt,  — 
The  bonds  shall  be  loosened,  —  the  iron 

shall  melt  ! 

And  O,  will  the  land  where  the  free 
soul  of  PEN  N 

Still  lingers  and  breathes  over  moun 
tain  and  glen,  — 


Will  the  land  where  a  BENEZET'S  spirit 
went  forth 

To  the  peeled,  and  the  meted,  and  out 
cast  of  Earth,  — 

Where  the  words  of  the  Charter  of 
Liberty  first 

From  the  soul  of  the  sage  and  the  pa 
triot  burst,  — 

Where  first  for  the  wronged  and  the 
weak  of  their  kind, 

The  Christian  and  statesman  their  ef 
forts  combined,  — 

Will  that  land  of  the  free  and  the  good 
wear  a  chain  ? 

Will  the  call  to  the  rescue  of  Freedom 
be  vain  ? 

No,  RITNER  !  — her  "  Friends  "  at  thy 

warning  shall  stand 
Erect  for  the  truth,  like  their  ancestral 

band  ; 
Forgetting  the  feuds  and  the  strife  of 

past  time, 
Counting  coldness  injustice,  and  silemce 

a  crime  ; 
Turning  back  from  the  cavil  of  creeds, 

to  unite 
Once  again  for  the  poor  in  defence  of 

the  Right ; 
Breasting  calmly,  but  firmly,  the  full 

tide  of  Wrong, 
Overwhelmed,  but  not  borne  on    its 

surges  along  ; 
Unappalled  by  the  danger,  the  shame, 

and  the  pain, 
And  counting  each  trial  for  Truth  as 

their  gain  ! 

And  that  bold-hearted  yeomanry,  hon 
est  and  true, 

Who,  haters  of  fraud,  give  to  labor  its 
due  ; 

Whose  fathers,  of  old,  sang  in  concert 
with  thine, 

On  the  banks  of  Swetara,  the  songs  of 
the  Rhine,  — 

The  German-bom  pilgrims,  who  first 
dared  to  brave 

The  scorn  of  the  proud  in  the  cause  of 
the  slave  :  — 

Will  the  sons  of  such  men  yield  the 
lords  of  the  South 

One  brow  for  the  brand,  —  for  the  pad 
lock  one  mouth  ? 


7o 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


They  cater  to  tyrants  ?  —  They  rivet 

the  chain, 
Which  their  fathers  smote  off,  on  the 

negro  again  ? 

No,  never  !  —  one  voice,  like  the  sound 
in  the  cloud, 

When  the  roar  of  the  storm  waxes  loud 
and  more  loud, 

Wherever  the  foot  of  the  freeman  hath 
pressed 

From  the  Delaware's  marge  to  the 
Lake  of  the  West, 

On  the  South-going  breezes  shall 
deepen  and  grow 

Till  the  land  it  sweeps  over  shall  trem 
ble  below  ! 

The  voice  of  a  PEOPLE,  —  uprisen, — 
awake,  — 

Pennsylvania's  watchword,  with  Free 
dom  at  stake, 

Thrilling  up  from  each  valley,  flung 
down  from  each  height, 

*OuR  COUNTRY  AND  LIBERTY!  — 
GOD  FOR  THE  RIGHT  1 " 


THE  PASTORAL  LETTER. 

So,  this  is  all,  —  the  utmost  reach 

Of  priestly  power  the  mind  to  fetter  ! 
When   laymen   think  —  when   women 

preach  — 

A  war  of  words  —  a  "Pastoral  Let 
ter  !  " 

Now,  shame  upon  ye,  parish  Popes  ! 
Was  it  thus  with  those,  your  prede 
cessors, 
Who  sealed  with  racks,  and  fire,  and 

ropes 

Their  loving-kindness  to  transgres 
sors? 

A  "  Pastoral  Letter,"  grave  and  dull  — 
Alas  !   in   hoof  and   horns  and  fea 
tures, 

How  different  is  your  Brookfield  bull, 
From  him  who  bellows  from  St.  Pe 
ter's  ! 
Your  pastoral  rights  and  powers  from 


•  pastora 
harm, 


Think  ye,  can  words  alone  preserve 
them? 


Your  wiser  fathers  taught  the  arm 
And    sword    of  temporal  power  to 
serve  them. 

O,  glorious  days,  —  when  Church  and 

State 

Were  wedded  by  your  spiritual  fa 
thers  !  _ 
And  on  submissive  shoulders  sat 

Your  Wilsons  and  your  Cotton  Ma- 

_  thers. 

No  vile  "itinerant  "  then  could  mar 
The  beauty  of  your  tranquil  Zion, 
But  at  his  peril  of  the  scar 

Of  hangman's  whip  and   branding- 
iron. 

Then,   wholesome  laws    relieved    the 

Church 

Of  heretic  and  mischief-maker, 
And  priest  and  bailiff  joined  in  search, 
By  turns,  of  Papist,  witch,  and  Qua 
ker  ! 

The  stocks  were  at  each  church's  door, 
The  gallows  stood  on  Boston  Com 
mon, 

A  Papist's  ears  the  pillory  bore,  — 
The  gallows-rope,  a  Quaker  woman  < 

Your  fathers  dealt  not  as  ye  deal 
With  "non-professing"  frantic  teach> 

ers ; 
They  bored  the  tongue  with  red-hoi 

steel, 
And  flayed  the  backs  of   "  femaK 

preachers." 

Old  Newbury,  had  her  fields  a  tongue. 
And  Salem's  streets  could  tell  their 

story, 

Of  fainting  woman  dragged  along, 
Gashed  by  the  whip,  accursed  and 
gory  ! 

And  will  ye  ask  me,  why  this  taunt 

Of  memories  sacred  from  the  scorner? 
And  why  with  reckless  hand  I  plant 

A  nettle  on  the  graves  ye  honor  ? 
Not  to  reproach  New  England's  dead 

This  record  from  the  past  I  summon, 
Of  manhood  to  the  scaffold  led, 

And  suffering  and  heroic  woman. 

No,  —  for  yourselves  alone,  I  turn 
The  pages  of  intolerance  over, 


LINES. 


That,  in  their  spirit,  dark  and  stem, 
Ye  haply  may  your  own  discover  ! 

For,  if  ye  claim  the  "  pastoral  right," 
To  silence  Freedom's  voice  of  warn- 

And  from  your  precincts  shut  the  light 
Of  Freedom's  day  around  ye  dawn 
ing; 

If  when  an  earthquake  voice  of  power, 
And  signs  in  earth  and  heaven,  are 

showing 
That  forth,  in  its  appointed  hour, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  going  ! 
And,  with  that  Spirit,  Freedom's  light 
On    kindred,    tongue,    and    people 

breaking, 
Whose    slumbering    millions,    at    the 

sight, 
In  glory  and  in  strength  are  waking  ! 

When  for  the  sighing  of  the  poor, 

And  for  the  needy,  God  hath  risen, 
And  chains  are  breaking,  and  a  door 

Is  opening  for  the  souls  in  prison  ! 
If  then  ye  would,  with  puny  hands, 

Arrest  the  very  work  of  Heaven, 
And  bind  anew  the  evil  bands 

Which   God's    right  arm  of  power 
hath  riven,  — 

What  marvel  that,  in  many  a  mind, 

Those  darker  deeds  of  bigot  madness 
Are  closely  with  your  own  combined, 

Yet  "  less  in  anger  than  in  sadness  "  ? 
What  marvel,  if  the  people  learn 

To  claim  the  right  of  free  opinion  ? 
What  marvel,  if  at  times  they  spurn 

The  ancient  yoke  of  your  dominion  ? 

A  glorious  remnant:  linger  yet, 

Whose   lips   are  wet  at    Freedom's 

fountains, 
The  coming  of  whose  welcome  feet 

Is  beautiful  upon  our  mountains  ! 
Men,  who  the  gospel  tidings  bring 

Of  Liberty  and  Love  forever, 
Whose  joy  is  an  abiding  spring, 

Whose  peace  is  as  a  gentle  river  ! 

But  ye,  who  scorn  the  thrilling  tale 
( )f  Carolina's  high-souled  daughters, 

Which  echoes  here  the  mournful  wail 
Of  sorrow  from  Edisto's  waters, 


Close  while  ye  may  the  public  ear,  — 
With  malice  vex,  with  slander  wound 

them,  — 

The  pure  and  good  shall  throng  to  hear, 
And  tried  and  manly  hearts  surround 
them. 

O,  ever  may  the  power  which  led 

Their  way  to  such  a  fiery  trial, 
And  strengthened  womanhood  to  tread 

The  wine-press  of  such  self-denial, 
Be  round  them  in  an  evil  land, 

With  wisdom  and  with  strength  from 

Heaven, 
With   Miriam's    voice,   and    Judith's 

hand, 

And    Deborah's   song,  for  triumph 
given ! 

And  what  are  ye  who  strive  with  God 

Against  the  ark  of  his  salvation, 
Moved  by  the  breath  of  prayer  abroad, 

With  blessings  for  a  dying  nation  ? 
What,  but  the  stubble  and  the  hay 

To  perish,  even  as  flax  consuming. 
With  all  that  bars  his  glorious  way. 

Before  the  brightness  of  his  coming? 

And  thou,  sad  Angel,  who  so  long 

Hast  waited  for  the  glorious  token, 
That  Earth  from  all  her  bonds  of  wrong 

To  liberty  and  light  has  broken,  — 
Angel  of  Freedom  !  soon  to  thee 

The  sounding  trumpet  shall  be  given, 
And  over  Earth's  full  jubilee 

Shall  deeper  joy  be  felt  in  Heaven ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE 
ANTI-SLAVERY  SOCIETY,  AT  CHAT 
HAM  STREET  CHAPEL,  N.  Y.,  HELD 
ON  THE  4TH  OF  THE  JTH  MONTH, 
I834. 

O  THOU,  whose  presence  went  before 
Our  fathers  in  their  weary  way, 

As  with  thy  chosen  moved  of  yore 
The  fire  by  night,  the  cloud  by  day  ! 

When  from  each  temple  of  the  free, 
A  nation's  song  ascends  to  Heaven, 

Most  Holy  Father  !  unto  thee 
May  not  our  humble  prayer  be  given  ? 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


Thy  children  all, — though  hue  and  form 
Are  varied  in  thine  own  good  will,  — 

With  thy  own  holy  breathings  warm, 
And  fashioned  in  thine  image  still. 

We  thank    thee,    Father  !  —  hill   and 

plain 
Around  us  wave  their  fruits    once 

more, 
And    clustered    vine,   and    blossomed 

grain, 
Are  bending  round  each  cottage  door. 

And  peace  is  here  ;   and  hope  and  love 
Are  round  us  as  a  mantle  thrown, 

And  unto  Thee,  supreme  above, 
The  knee  of  prayer  is  bowed  alone. 

But  O,  for  those  this  day  can  bring, 
As  unto  us,  no  joyful  thrill,  — 

For  those  who,  under  Freedom's  wing, 
Are  bound  in  Slavery's  fetters  still : 

For  those  to  whom  thy  living  word 
Of  light  and  love  is  never  given,  — 

For  those  whose  ears  have  never  heard 
The  promise  and  the  hope  of  Heaven  ! 

For  broken-  heart,  and  clouded  mind, 
Whereon  no  human  mercies  fall,  — 

O,  be  thy  gracious  love  inclined, 
Who,  as  a  Father,  pitiest  all ! 

And  grant,  O  Father  !  that  the  time 
Of  Earth's  deliverance  may  be  near, 

When    every    land    and    tongue    and 

clime 
The  message  of  thy  love  shall  hear, — 

When,  smitten  as  with  fire  from  heaven, 
The  captive's  chain  shall  sink  in  dust, 

And  to  his  fettered  soul  be  given 
The  glorious  freedom  of  the  just ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  OF 
THE  THIRD  ANNIVERSARY  OF  BRIT 
ISH  EMANCIPATION  AT  THE  BROAD 
WAY  TABERNACLE,  N.  Y.,  "FIRST  OF 
AUGUST,"  1837. 

O  HOLY  FATHER  !  — just  and  true 
Are  all  thy  works  and  words  and  ways, 


And  unto  thee  alone  are  due 

Thanksgiving  and  eternal  praise  ! 

As  children  of  thy  gracious  care, 
We  veil  the  eye,  we  bend  the  knee, 

With  broken  words  of  praise  and  prayer, 
Father  and  God,  we  come  to  thee. 

For  thou  hast  heard,  O  God  of  Right, 

The  sighing  of  the  island  slave  ; 
And  stretched  for  him  the  arm  of  might, 

Not  shortened  that  it  could  not  save. 
The  laborer  sits  beneath  his  vine, 

The    shackled    soul    and    hand   are 

free,  — 
Thanksgiving  !  —  for  the  work  is  thine  ! 

Praise !  —  for  the  blessing  is  of  thee  I 

And  O,  we  feel  thy  presence  here,  — 

Thy  awful  arm  in  judgment  bare  ! 
Thine  eye  hath   seen   the   bondman's 
tear,  — 

Thine  ear  hath  heard  the  bondman's 

prayer. 
Praise  !  —  for  the  pride  of  man  is  low, 

The  counsels  of  the  wise  are  naught, 
The  fountains  of  repentance  flow  ; 

What  hath  our  God  inmercy  wrought  ? 

Speed  on  thy  work.  Lord  God  of  Hosts  ! 

And  when  the  bondman's  chain   is 

riven, 
And  swells  from  all  our  guilty  coasts 

The  anthem  of  the  free  to  Heaven, 
O,  not  to  those  whom  thou  hast  led, 

As  with  thy  cloud  and  fire  before, 
But  unto  thee,  in  fear  and  dread, 

Be  praise  and  glory  evermore. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY 
CELEBRATION  OF  THE  FIRST  OF 
AUGUST,  AT  MILTON,  1846. 

A  FEW  brief  years  have  passed  away 

Since  Britain  drove  her  million  slaves 
Beneath  the  tropic's  fiery  ray  : 
God  willed  their  freedom  ;  and  to-day 
Lifeblooms  above  those  islandgraves  ! 

He  spoke  !  across  the  Carib  Sea, 
We  heard  the  clash  of  breakingchains. 


THE  FAREWELL. 


73 


And  fe.lt  the  heart-throb  of  the  free, 
The  first,  strong  pulse  of  liberty 

Which  thrilled  along  the  bondman's 
veins. 

Though  long  delayed,  and  far,  and  slow, 
The  Briton's  triumph  shall  be  ours  : 
Wears  slavery  here  a  prouder  brow 
Than  that  which  twelve  short  years  ago 
Scowled  darkly  Irom  her  island  bovv 
ers  ? 

Mighty  alike  for  good  or  ill 

With  mother-land,  we  fully  share 

The    Saxon   strength,  —  the  nerve  of 
steel,  — 

The  tireless  energy  of  will,  — 
The  power  to  clo,  the  pride  to  dare. 

What  she  has  done  can  we  not  do? 

Our  hour  and  men  are  both  at  hand  ; 
The  blast  which  Freedom's  angel  blew 
O'er  her  green  islands,  echoes  through 

Each  valley  of  our  iorest  land. 

Hear -it,  old  Europe  !  we  have  sworn 

The  death  of  slavery.—  When  it  falls, 
Look  to  your  vassals  in  their  turn, 
Your  poor  dumb  millions,  crushed  and 

\\  orn , 
Your  prisons  and  your  palace  walls  ! 

O  kingly  mockers  ! —  scoffing  show 
What  deeds  in  Freedom's  name  we 

do; 

Yet  know  that  every  taunt  ye  throw 
Across  the  waters,  goads  our  slow 
Progression  towards  the  right  and  true. 

Not  always  shall  your  outraged  poor, 

Appalled  by  democratic  crime, 
Grind  as  their  fathers  ground  before,  — 
The  hour  which  sees  our  prison  door 
Swing  wide   shall  be  their  triumph 
time. 

On  then,  my  brothers  !  every  blow 

Ye  deal  is  felt  the  wide  earth  through ; 
Whatever  here  uplifts  the  low 
Or  humbles  Freedom's  hateful  foe, 
Blesses  the  Old  World  through  the 
New. 

Take  heart  !  The  promised  hour  draws 

near,  • — 
I  hear  the  downward  beat  of  wings, 


AndFreedom'strumpetsotinding  clear : 
"  Joy  to  the  people  !  — woe  and  fear 
To    new-world     tyrants,     old-world 
kings  !  " 


THE  FAREWELL 

OF  A  VIRGINIA  SLAVE  MOTHER  TO  HER 
DAUGHTERS  SOLD  INTO  SOUTHERN 
BONDAGE. 

GONE,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Where  the  slave-whip  ceaseless  swings, 
Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 
Where  the  fever  demon  strews 
Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 
Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 
Through  the  hot  and  misty  air,  — 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — • 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them  ; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash, 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them, 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
O,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 
Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again, 
There   no  brother's  voice  shall  greet 

them,  — 

There  no  father's  welcome  meet  them. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — • 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  lite-swamp  dank  and  lone. 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood's  place  of  play,  — 
From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank, — 
Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank,  — 
From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 
And  the  holy  counsels  there,  — 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waTers,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  andlone, — 
Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 
And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey. 
O  that  they  had  earlier  died, 
Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 
Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er, 
And  the  fetter  galls  no  more  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
By  the  holy  love  He  beareth,  — 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth,  — 
O,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 
Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 
With  a  more  than  mother's  love. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 


THE   MORAL  WARFARE. 

WHEN  Freedom,  on  her  natal  day, 
Within  her  war-rocked  cradle  lay, 
An  iron  race  around  her  stood, 
Baptized  her  infant  brow  in  blood  ; 
And,  through  the  storm  which  round 

her  swept, 
Their  constant  ward  and  watching  kept. 

Then,  where  our  quiet  herds  repose, 
The  roar  of  baleful  battle  rose, 
And  brethren  of  a  common  tongue 
To  mortal  strife  as  tigers  sprung, 
And  every  gift  on  Freedom's  shrine 
Was  man  for  beast,  and  blood  for  wine  ! 


Our  fathers  to  their  graves  have  gone  ; 
Their  strife    is   past,  —  their  triumph 

won  ; 

But  sterner  trials  wait  the  race 
Which  rises  in  their  honored  place,  — 
A  moral  warfare  with  the  crime 
And  folly  of  an  evil  time. 

So  let  it  be.     In  God's  own  might 
We  gird  us  for  the  coming  fight, 
And,  strong  in  Him  whose  cause  is  ours 
In  conflict  with  unholy  powers, 
We  grasp  the  weapons  He  has  given,  — 
The   Light,   and  Truth,  and  Love  ot 
Heaven. 


THE  WORLD'S    CONVENTION 

OF   THE    FRIENDS    OF    EMANCIPATION 
HELD    IN    LONDON    IN    1840. 

YES,  let  them  gather !  —  Summon  forth 
The  pledged  philanthropy  of  Earth, 
From  every  land,  whose  hills  have  heard 

The  bugle  blast  of  Freedom  waking  ; 
Or  shrieking  of  her  symbol-bird 

From  out  his  cloudy  eyrie  breaking  : 
Where  Justice  hath  one  worshipper, 
Or  truth  one  altar  built  to  her ; 
Where'er  a  human  eye  is  weeping 

O'er  wrongs  which  Earth's  sad  chil 
dren  know,  — 
Where'er  a  single  heart  is  keeping 

Its  prayerful  watch  with  human  woe  : 
Thence  let  them  come,  and  greet  each 

other, 
And  know  in  each  a  friend  and  brother ! 

Yes,  let  them  come  !  from  each  green 
vale 

Where  England's  old  baronial  halls 

Still  bear  upon  their  storied  walls 
The  grim  crusader's  rusted  mail, 
Battered  by  Paynim  spear  and  brand 
On  Malta's  rock  or  Syria's  sand  ! 
And  mouldering  pennon-staves  once  set 

Within  the  soil  of  Palestine, 
By  Jordan  and  Genesaret  ; 

Or,  borne  with  England's  battle  line, 
O'er  Acre's  shattered  turrets  stooping, 
Or,  midst  the  camp  their  banners  droop- 


THE    WORLD'S   CONVENTION. 


75 


With  dews  from  hallowed  Hermotl 

wet, 
A  holier  summons  now  is  given 

Than  that  gray  hermit's  voice  of  old, 
Which  unto  all  the  winds  of  heaven 

The  banners  of  the  Cross  unrolled  ! 
Not  for  the  long-deserted  shrine,  — 

Not  for  the  dull  unconscious  sod, 
Which  tells  not  by  one  lingering  sign 

That  there  the  hope  of  Israel  trod  ;  — 
But  for  that  TRUTH,  for  which  alone 

In  pilgrim  eyes  are  sanctified 
The  garden  moss,  the  mountain  stone, 
Whereon  his  holy  sandals  pressed,  — 
The    fountain    which    his    lip    hath 

blessed, — 
Whate'er  hath  touched  his  garment's 

hem 
At  Bethany  or  Bethlehem, 

Or  Jordan's  river-side. 
For  FREEDOM,  in  the  name  of  Him 

Who  came  to  raise  Earth's  drooping 

poor, 

To  break  the  chain  from  every  limb, 
The  bolt  from  every  prison  door  ! 
For   these,    o'er    all    the    earth   hath 

passed 

An  ever-deepening  trumpet  blast, 
As  if  an  angel's  breath  had  lent 
Its  vigor  to  the  instrument. 

And  Wales,  from  Snowden's  mountain 

wall, 
Shall  startle  at  that  thrilling  call, 

As  if  she  heard  her  bards  again  ; 
And  Erin's  "  harp  on  Tara's  wall  " 

Give  out  its  ancient  strain, 
Mirthful  and  sweet,  yet  sad  withal,  — 

The  melody  which  Erin  loves, 
When  o'er  that  harp,  'mid  bursts  of 

gladness 
And  slogan  cries  and  lyke-wake  sadness, 

The  hand  of  her  O'Connell  moves  ! 
Scotland,  from  lake  and  tarn  and  rill, 
And  mountain  hold,  and  heathery  hill. 

Shall  catch  and  echo  back  the  note, 
As  if  she  heard  upon  her  air 
Once  more  her  Cameronian's  prayer 

And  song  of  Freedom  float. 
And  cheering  echoes  shall  reply 
From  each  remote  dependency, 
Where  Britain's  mighty  sway  is  known, 
In  tropic  sea  or  frozen  zone  ; 
Where'er  her  sunset  flag  is  furling, 


Or  morning  gun-fire's  smoke  is  curling ; 
From  Indian  Bengal's  groves  of  palm 
And  rosy  fields  and  gales  of  balm, 
Where  Eastern  pomp   and  power  are 

rolled 

Through  regal  Ava's  gates  of  gold  ; 
And  from  the  lakes  and  ancient  woods 
And  dim  Canadian  solitudes, 
Whence,  sternly  from  her  rocky  throne, 
Queen  of  the  North,  Quebeclooksdown  ; 
And  from   those  bright  and  ransomed 

Isles 

Where  all  unwonted  Freedom  smiles, 
And  the  dark  laborer  still  retains 
The  scar  of  slavery's  broken  chains ! 

From  the  hoar  Alps,  which  sentinel 
The  gateways  of  the  land  of  Tell, 
Where    morning's    keen  and    earliest 
glance 

On  Jura's  rocky  wall  is  thrown, 
And  from  the  olive  bowers  of  France 

And    vine    groves    garlanding    the 

Rhone,  — 
"  Friends  of  the  Blacks,"  as  true  and 

tried 

As  those  who  stood  by  Oge's  side, 
And  heard  the  Haytien's  tale  of  wrong, 
Shall  gather  at  that  summons  strong,  — 
Broglie,  Passy,  and  him  whose  song 
Breathed  over  Syria's  holy  sod, 
And  in  the  paths  which  Jesus  trod, 
And  murmured  midst  the  hillswhich  hem 
Crownless  and  sad  Jerusalem, 
Hath  echoes  wheresoe'er  the  tone 
Of  Israel's  prophet-lyre  is  known. 

Still  let    them   come,  —  from   Quito's 
walls, 

And  from  the  Orinoco's  tide, 
From  Lima's  Inca-haunted  halls, 
From  Santa  Fe  and  Yucatan,  — 

Men  who  by  swart  Guerrero's  side 
Proclaimed  the   deathless   RIGHTS  OF 

MAN, 

Broke  every  bond  and  fetter  off, 

And  hailed  in  every  sable  serf 
A  free  and  brother  Mexican  ! 
Chiefs  who  across  the  Andes'  chain 

Have    followed    Freedom's    flowing 

pennon, 

And  seen  on  Junin's  fearful  plain, 
Glare  o'er  the  broken  ranks  of  Spain 

The  fire-burst  of  Bolivar's  cannon  1 


76 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


And  Hayti,  from  her  mountain  land, 
Shall   send  the   sons   of   those  who 

hurled 

Defiance  from  her  blazing  strand,  — 
The  war-gage  from  her  Petion's  hand, 
Alone  against  a  hostile  world. 

Nor  all  unmindful,  thou,  the  while, 
Land  of  the  dark  and  mystic  Nile  !  — 

Thy  Moslem  mercy  yet  may  shame 

All  tyrants  of  a  Christian  name,  — 
When  in  the  shade  of  Gizeh's  pile, 
Or,  where  from  Abyssinian  hills 
El  Gerek's  upper  fountain  fills, 
Or  where  from  Mountains  of  the  Moon 
El  Abiad  bears  his  watery  boon, 
Where'er  thy  lotus  blossoms  swim 

Within  their  ancient   hallowed   wa 
ters,  — 
Where'er  is  heard  the  Coptic  hymn, 

Or  song  of   Nubia's   sable   daugh 
ters,  — 

The  curse  of  SLAVERY  and  the  crime, 
Thy  bequest  from  remotest  time, 
At  thy  dark  Mehemet's  decree      — 
Forever  more  shall  pass  from  thee  ; 

And  chains  forsake   each  captive's 

limb 

Of  all  those  tribes,  whose  hills  around 
Have  echoed  back  the  cymbal  sound 

And  victor  horn  of  Ibrahim. 

And  thou  whose  glory  and  whose  crime 
To  earth's  remotest  bound  and  clime, 
In  mingled  tones  of  awe  and  scorn, 
The  echoes  of  a  world  have  borne, 
My  country  !  glorious  at  thy  birth, 
A  day-star  flashing  brightly  forth,  — 

The  herald-sign  of  Freedom's  dawn  ! 
O,    who   could  "dream   that  saw  thee 

then, 

And  w^atched  thy  rising  from  afar, 
That  vapors  from  oppression's  fen 
Would   cloud   the    upward    tending 

star? 
Or,  that  earth's  tyrant  powers,  which 

heard, 
Awe-struck,  the  shout  which  hailed 

thy  dawning, 
Would  rise  so  soon,  prince,  peer,  and 

king, 

To  mock  thee  with  their  welcoming, 
Like   Hades  when  her  thrones  were 
stirred 


To    greet    the    down-cast    Star    of 

Morning ! 

"Aha  !  and  art  thou  fallen  thus? 
Art  THOU  become  as  one  of  us  ?  " 

Land  of  my  fathers  !  —  there  will  stand, 
Amidst  that  world-assembled  band, 
Those  owning  thy  maternal  claim 
Unweakened  by  thycrime  and  shame,— 
The  sad  reprovers  of  thy  wrong,  — 
The  children  thou  hast  spurned  so  long. 
Still  with  affection's  fondest  yearning 
To  their  unnatural  mother  turning. 
No  traitors  they  !  — but  tried  and  leal, 
Whose  own  is  but  thy  general  weal, 
Still  blending  with  the  patriot's  zeal 
The  Christian's  love  for  human  kind, 
To  caste  and  climate  unconfined. 

A  holy  gathering  !  —  peaceful  all : 
No  threat  of  war,  —  no  savage  call 

For  vengeance  on  an  erring  brother  r 
But  in  their  stead  the  godlike  plan 
To  teach  the  brotherhood  of  man 

To  love  and  reverence  one  another, 
As  sharers  of  a  common  blood, 
The  children  of  a  common  God  !  — 
Yet,  even  at  its  lightest  word, 
Shall  Slavery'sdarkestdepthsbestirred : 
Spain,  watching  from  her  Moro's  keep 
Her  slave-ships  traversing  the  deep, 
And  Rio,  in  her  strength  and  pride, 
Lifting,  along  her  mountain-side, 
Her  snowy  battlements  and  towers, — 
Her  lemon-groves  and  tropic  bowers, 
With  bitter  hate  and  sullen  fear 
Its  freedom-giving  voice  shall  hear  ; 
And  where  my  country's  flag  is  flowing, 
On  breezes  from  Mount  Vernon  blow 
ing 

Above  the  Nation's  council  halls, 
Where   Freedom's  praise  is  loud  and 
long, 

While  close  beneath  the  outward  walls 
The  driver  plies  his  reeking  thong,  — 

The  hammer  of  the  man-thief  falls, 
O'er  hypocritic  cheek  and  brow 
The  crimson  flush  of  shame  shall  glow  : 
And  all  who  for  their  native  land 
Are  pledging  life  and  heart  and  hand,  — 
Worn  watchers  o'er  her  changing  weal, 
Who  for  her  tarnished  honor  feel,  — 
Through  cottage  door  and  council-hall 
Shall  thunder  an  awakening  call. 


THE   NEW  YEAR. 


77 


The  pen  along  its  page  shall  burn 

With  all  intolerable  scorn,  — 

An  eloquent  rebuke  shall  go 

On  all  the  winds  that  Southward  blow, — 

From  priestly  lips,  now  sealed  and  dumb, 

Warning  and  dread  appeal  shall  come, 

Like   those   which   Israel   heard  from 

him, 

The  Prophet  of  the  Cherubim,  — 
Or  those  which  sad  Esaias  hurled 
Against  a  sin-accursed  world  ! 
Its  wizard  leaves  the  Press  shall  fling 
Unceasing  from  its  iron  wing, 
With  characters  inscribed  thereon, 

As  fearful  in  the  despot's  hall 
As  to  the  pomp  of  Babylon 

The  fire-sign  on  the  palace  wall  ! 
And,  from  her  dark  iniquities, 
Methipks  I  see  my  country  rise  : 
Not  challenging  the  nations  round 

To  note  her  tardy  justice  done,  — 
Her  captives  from  their  chains  unbound, 

Her  prisons  opening  to  the  sun  :  — 
I  _>ut  tearfully  her  arms  extending 
'Over  the  poor  and  unoffending ; 

Her  regal  emblem  now  no  longer 
A  bird  of  prey,  with  talons  reeking, 
Above  the  dying  captive  shrieking, 
But,  spreading  out  her  ample  wing, — 
A  broad,  impartial  covering,  — 

The  weaker  sheltered  by  the  strong 
er  !— 
O,  then  to  Faith's  anointed  eyes 

The  promised  token  shall  be  given ; 
And  on  a  nation's  sacrifice, 
Atoning  for  the  sin  of  years, 
And  wet  with  penitential  tears,  — 

The  fire  shall  fall  from  Heaven  ! 

1839- 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

1845. 

GOB    bless    New   Hampshire  !  —  from 

her  granite  peaks 
Once   more   the    voice  of    Stark  and 

Langdon  speaks. 
The  long-bound  vassal  of  the  exulting 

South 
For  very  shame  her  self-forged  chain 

has  broken,  — 


Torn  the  black  seal  of  slavery  from  her 

mouth, 
And  in  the  clear  tones  of  her  old  time 

spoken  ! 
O,   all  undreamed-of,   all   unhoped-for 

changes ! — 

The   tyrant's  ally  proves  his  stern 
est  foe  ; 
To  all  his  biddings,  from  her  mountain 

ranges, 

New  Hampshire  thunders  an  indig 
nant  No  ! 

Whois  it  now  despairs  ?  O,  faint  of  heart, 
Look    upward    to    those    Northern 

mountains  cold, 

Flouted  by  Freedom's  victor-flag  un 
rolled, 
And  gather  strength  to  bear  a  manlier 

part  ! 
All  is  not  lost.     The  angel  of  God's 

blessing 
Encamps  with  Freedom  on  the  field 

of  fight : 
Still  to  her  banner,  day  by  day,   are 

pressing, 
Unlooked-for  allies,  striking  for  the 

right ! 
Courage,  then,  Northern  hearts  !  —  Be 

firm,  be  true  : 

What  one  brave  State  hath  done,  can  ye 
not  also  do  ? 


THE  NEW  YEAR : 

ADDRESSED   TO  THE   PATRONS  OF  THK 
PENNSYLVANIA   FREEMAN. 

THE  wave  is  breaking  on  the  shore,  — 
The  echo  fading  from  the  chime,  — 

Again  the  shadow  moveth  o'er 
The  dial-plate  of  time  ! 

O,  seer-seen  Angel  !  waiting  now 
With  weary  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 

Impatient  for  the  last  dread  vow 
That  time  shall  be  no  more  ! 

Once  more  across  thy  sleepless  eye 
The  semblance  of  a  smile  has  passed : 

The  year  departing  leaves  more  nigh 
Time's  fearfullest  and  last. 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


O,  in  that  dying  year  hath  been 
The  sum  of  all  since  time  began,  — 

The  birth  and  death,  the  joy  and  pain, 
Of  Nature  and  of  Man. 

Spring,  with   her  change    of  sun   and 

shower, 
And  streams  released  from  Winter's 

chain, 

And  bursting  bud,  and  opening  flower, 
And  greenly  growing  grain  ; 

And  Summer's  shade,  and  sunshine 
warm, 

And  rainbpwso'erherhill-tops  bowed, 
And  voices  in  her  rising  storm,  — 

God  speaking  from  his  cloud  !  — 

And  Autumn's  fruits  and  clustering 
sheaves, 

And  soft,  warm  days  of  golden  light, 
The  glory  of  her  forest  leaves, 

And  harvest-moon  at  night ; 

And  Winter  with  her  leafless  grove, 
And  prisoned  stream,   and  drifting 
snow, 

The  brilliance  of  her  heaven  above 
And  of  her  earth  below :  — 

And  man,  — in  whom  an  angel's  mind 
With     earth's    low    instincts     finds 
abode,  — 

The  highest  of  the  links  which  bind 
Brute  nature  to  her  God  ; 

His  infant  eye  hath  seen  the  light, 
His   childhood's    merriest    laughter 
rung, 

And  active  sports  to  manlier  might 
The  nerves  of  boyhood  strung  ! 

And  quiet  love,  and  passion's  fires, 
Have   soothed    or  burned    in  man 
hood's  breast, 

And  lofty  aims  and  low  desires 
By  turns  disturbed  his  rest. 

The  wailing  of  the  newly-born 

Has  mingled  with  the  funeral  knell ; 

And  o'er  the  dying's  ear  has  gone 
The  merry  marriage-bell. 


And  Wealth  has  filled  his  halls  wit 

mirth, 

While  Want,  in  many  a  humble  shed, 
Toiled,  shivering  by  her  cheerless 

hearth, 
The  live-long  night  for  bread. 

And  worse  than  all, — the  human  slave, — 
The  sport  of  lust,  and  pride,  and 
scorn  ! 

Plucked  off  the  crown  his  Maker  gave, — 
His  regal  manhood  gone  • 

O,  still,  my  country  !  o'er  thy  plains, 
Blackened  with  slavery's  blight  and 
ban, 

That  human  chattel  drags  his  chains, — • 
An  uncreated  man  ! 

And  still,  where'er  to  sun  and  breeze, 
My  country,  is  thy  flag  unrolled, 

With  scorn,  the  gazing  stranger  sees 
A  stain  on  every  fold. 

O,  tear  the  gorgeous  emblem  down  ! 

It  gathers  scorn  from  every  eye, 
And  despots  smile  and  good  men  frown 

Whene'er  it  passes  by. 

Shame  !  shame  !  its  starry  sple.  1'?-,« 
glow 

Above  the  slaver's  loathsome    . 
Its  folds  are  ruffling  even  now 

His  crimson  flag  of  sale. 

Still  round  our  country's  proudest  hall 
The  trade  in  human  flesh  is  driven, 

And  at  each  careless  hammer-fall 
A  human  heart  is  riven. 

And  this,  too,  sanctioned  by  the  men, 
Vested  with  power  to  shield  the  right, 

And  throw  each  vile  and  robber  den 
Wide  open  to  the  light. 

Yet,  shame  upon  them  !  —  there  the} 
sit, 

Men  of  the  North,  subdued  and  still ; 
Meek,  pliant  poltroons,  only  fit 

To  work  a  master's  will. 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 


79 


Sold,  —  bargained     off  for    Southern 

votes,  — 

A  passive  herd  of  Northern  mules, 
Just  braying  through  their  purchased 

throats 
Whate'er  their  owner  rules. 

And  he,  35  —  the  basest  of  the  base, 
The  vilest  of  the  vile,  —  whose  name, 

Embalmed  in  infinite  disgrace, 
Is  deathless  in  its  shame  !  — 

A  tool,  —  to  bolt  the  people's  door 
Against  the  people  clamoring  there, 

An  ass,  —  to  trample  on  their  floor 
A  people's  right  of  prayer  ! 

Nailed  to  his  self-made  gibbet  fast, 
Self-pilloried  to  the  public  view,  — 

A  mark  for  every  passing  blast 
Of  scorn  to  whistle  through  ; 

There  let  him  hang,  and  hear  the  boast 
Of  Southrons  o'er  their  pliant  tool,  — 

A  new  Stylites  on  his  post, 
"  Sacred  to  ridicule  !  " 

Look  we  at  home  !  —  our  noble  hall, 
To  Freedom's  holy  purpose  given, 
Now  rears  its  black  and  ruined  wall, 
th  the  wintry  heaven,  — 


g  the  story  of  its  doom,  — 
The   fiendish   mob,  —  the  prostrate 

law,  — 

The  fiery  jet  through  midnight's  gloom, 
Our  gazing  thousands  saw. 

Look  to  our  State,  —  the  poor  man's 

right 
Torn   from  him:  —  and  the  sons  of 

those 
Whose  blood  in   Freedom's    sternest 

fight 
Sprinkled  the  Jersey  snows, 

Outlawed  within  the  land  of  Penn, 
That   Slavery's    guilty  fears    might 
cease, 

And  those  whom  God  created  men 
Toil  on  as  brutes  in  peace. 


Yet  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  storm 
A  bow  of  promise  bends  on  high, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine,  soft  and  warm, 
Break  through  our  clouded  sky. 

East,  West,  and   North,  the  shout  is 
heard, 

Of  freemen  rising  for  the  right  : 
Each  valley  hath  its  rallying  word,  — 

Each  hill  its  signal  light. 

O'er  Massachusetts'  rocks  of  gray, 
The   strengthening  light  of  freedom 
shines, 

Rhode  Island's  Narragansett  Bay,  — 
And  Vermont's  snow-hung  pines  ! 

From  Hudson's  frowning  palisades 
To  Alleghany's  laurelled  crest, 

O'er  lakes  and  prairies,  streams  and 

glades, 
It  shines  upon  the  West. 

Speed  on  the  light  to  those  who  dwell 
In  Slavery's  land  of  woe  and  sin, 

And  through  the  blackness  of  that  hell, 
Let  Heaven's  own  light  break  in. 

So  shall  the  Southern  conscience  quake 
Before   that  light  poured    full    and 
strong, 

So  shall  the  Southern  heart  awake 
To  all  the  bondman's  wrong. 

And  from  that  rich  and  sunny  land 
The  song  of  grateful  millions  rise, 

Like  that  of  Israel's  ransomed  band 
Beneath  Arabia's  skies : 

And  all  who  now  are  bound  beneath 
Our    banner's    shade,     our    eagle's 
wing, 

From  Slavery's  night  of  moral  death 
To  light  and  life  shall  spring. 

Broken    the    bondman's     chain,    and 

gone 
The   master's  guilt,  and  hate,    and 

fear, 

And  unto  both  alike  shall  dawn, 
A  New  and  Happy  Year. 
1839. 


8o  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA. 

[Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  proceedings  of  the  citizens  of  Norfolk,  Va.,  in 
reference  to  GEOIU;E  LATIMER,  the  alleged  fugitive  slave,  the  result  of  whose  case 
in  Massachusetts  will  probably  be  similar  to  that' of  the  negro  SOMERSET  in  England, 
in  1772.] 

THE  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon  its  Southern  way, 

Bears  greeting  to  Virginia  from  Massachusetts  Bay  :  — 

No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle  bugle's  peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  nor  clang  of  horsemen's  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our  highways  go,  — 

Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies  the  snow  ; 

And  to  the  land-breeze  of  coir  ports,  upon  their  errands  far, 

A  thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but  none  are  spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia  !  thy  stormy  words  and  high, 
Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which  melt  along  our  sky  ; 
Yet,  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  foregoes  its  honest  labor  here,  •< 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his  axe  in  fear. 

Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs  along  St.  George's  bank,  — 

Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white  and  dank  ; 

Through  storm,  and  wave,  and  blinding  mist,  stout  are  the  hearts  which  man 

The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea-boats  of  Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare  on  their  icy  forms, 
Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or  wrestling  with  the  storms  ; 
Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough  as  the  waves  they  roam, 
They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver's  threat  against  their  rocky  home. 

What  means  the  Old  Dominion  ?     Hath  she  forgot  the  day 
When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys  swept  the  Briton's  steel  array? 
How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Massachusetts  men 
Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and  stout  Cornwallis,  then  ? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the  call 
Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out  from  Faneuil  Hall? 
When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came  pulsing  on  each  breath 
Of  Northern  winds,  the  thrilling  sounds  of  "  LIBERTY  OR  DEATH  !  " 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion  ?     If  now  her  sons  have  proved 
False  to  their  fathers'  memory,  —  false  to  the  faith  they  loved, 
If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great  charter  spurn, 
Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  truth  and  duty  turn  ? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Slavery's  hateful  hell,  — 
Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the  bloodhound's  yell,  — 
We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our  fathers'  graves, 
From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  tear  your  wretched  slaves  I 

Thank  God  !  not  yet  So  vilely  can  Massachusetts  bow  ; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even  now  ; 

Dream  not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood  moves  slow  and  calm  and  cool, 

She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a  sister's  slave  and  tool  1 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO    VIRGINIA. 

All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that  *free  State  may, 
Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in  our  early  day  ; 
But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye  must  stagger  with  alone, 
And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  yourselves  have  sown  ! 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves,  and  burden  God's  free  air 
With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and  manhood's  wild  despair ; 
Cling  closer  to  the  "  cleaving  curse  "  that  writes  upon  your  plains 
The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a  land  of  chains. 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the  cavaliers  of  old, 
By  watching  round  the  shambles  where  human  flesh  is  sold,  — 
Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  and  count  his  market  value,  when 
The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall  pierce  the  slaver's  den  ! 

Lower  than  plummet  soundeth,  sink  the  Virginia  name  ; 

Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  with  rankest  weeds  of  shame  ; 

Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  universe,  — 

We  wash  our  hands  forever  of  your  sin  and  shame  and  curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from  Freedom's  shrine  hath  been, 
Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of  Berkshire's  mountain  men  : 
The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly  lingering  still 
In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind-swept  hill. 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came  hunting  for  his  prey 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker's  shaft  of  gray, 
How,  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son,  the  father's  warning  spoke  ; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect,  the  Pilgrim  city  broke  ! 

A  hundred  thousand  right  arms  were  lifted  up  on  high,  — 

A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their  loud  reply  ; 

Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the  startling  summons  rang, 

And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel  her  young  mechanics  sprang ! 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex,  —  of  thousands  as  of  one,  — 
The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  Lexington,  — 
From  Norfolk's  ancient  villages,  from  Plymouth's  rocky  bound 
To  where  Nantucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean  close  her  round  ;  — 

From  rich  and  rural  Worcester,  where  through  the  calm  repose 
Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the  gentle  Nashua  flows, 
To  where  Wachuset's  wintry  blasts  the  mountain  larches  stir, 
Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of"  God  save  Latimer  !  " 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with  the  salt  sea  spray,  — 

And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down  Narragansett  Bay  ! 

Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hampden  felt  the  thrill, 

And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen  swept  down  from  Holyoke  Hill. 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts  !     Of  her  free  sons  and  daughters, — 
Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud,  —  the  sound  of  many  waters  ! 
Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  tyrant  power  shall  stand? 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State  I    No  slave  upon  her  land  ! 
6 


82 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


Look  to  it  well,  Virginians  !     In  calmness  we  have  borne, 

In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult  and  your  scorn  ; 

You  've  spurned  our  kindest  counsels,  —  you  've  hunted  for  our  lives,  — 

And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and  homes  your  manacles  and  gyves  ! 

We  wage  no  war,  — we  lift  no  arm,  — we  fling  no  torch  within 
The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath  your  soil  of  sin  ; 
We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to  wrestle,  while  ye  can, 
With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and  godlike  soul  of  man  ! 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow  which  we  have  given 
For  freedom  and  humanity  is  registered  in  Heaven  ; 
No  slave-hunt  in  our  borders,  —  no  pirate  on  our  strand  ! 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State,  — no  slave  ^^pon  our  land! 


THE  RELIC. 

[PENNSYLVANIA  HALL,  dedicated  to  Free  Discussion  and  the  cause  of  human  liberty, 
•was  destroyed  by  a  mob  in  18-'.W.  The  following  was  written  on  receiving  a  cane  wrought 
from  a  fragment  of  the  wood-work  which  the  nre  had  spared.] 


TOKEN  of  friendship  true  and  tried, 
From  one  whose  fiery  heart  of  youth 

With  mine  has  beaten,  side  by  side, 
For  Liberty  and  Truth  ; 

With  honest  pride  the  gift  I  take, 

And  prize  it  for  the  giver's  sake. 

But  not  alone  because  it  tells 

Of   generous    hand   and    heart   sin 
cere  ; 
Around  that  gift  of  friendship  dwells 

A  memory  doubly  dear,  — 
Earth's  noblest   aim,  —  man's  holiest 

thought, 
With  that  memorial  frail  inwrought ! 

Pure  thoughts  and  sweet,  like  flowers 

unfold, 

*     And  precious  memories  round  it  cling, 
Even  as  the  Prophet's  rod  of  old 

In  beauty  blossoming : 
And  buds  of  feeling  pure  and  good 
Spring  from  its  cold  unconscious  wood. 

Relic  of  Freedom's  shrine  !  —  a  brand 
Plucked  from  its  burning  !  —  let  it  be 

Dear  as  a  jewel  from  the  hand 
Of  a  lost  frie.nd  to  me  !  — 

Flower  of  a  perished  garland  left, 

Of  life  and  beauty  unbereft  I 


O,  if  the  young  enthusiast  bears, 
O'er  weary  waste  and  sea,  the  stone 

Which    crumbled   from   the    Forum's 

stairs, 
Or  round  the  Parthenon  ; 

Or  olive-bough  from  some  wild  tree 

Hung  over  old  Thermopylae  : 

If  leaflets  from  some  hero's  tomb, 
Or    moss- wreath    torn    from    ruins 
hoary,  — 

Or  faded  flowers  whose  sisters  bloom 
On  fields  renowned  in  story, — 

Or  fragment  from  the  Alhambra's  crest, 

Or  the  gray  rock  by  Druids  blessed  ; 

Sad  Erin's  shamrock  greenly  growing 
Where  Freedom  led  her  stalwart  kern, 

Or  Scotia's  "rough  bur  thistle"  blowing 
On  Bruce's  Bannockburn,  — 

Or  Runnymede's  wild  English  rose, 

Or    lichen    plucked    from    Sempach's 
snows  !  — 

If  it  be  true  that  things  like  these 
To  heart  and  eye  bright  visions  bring. 

Shall  not  far  holier  memories 
To  this  memorial  cling  ? 

Which  needs  no  mellowing  mist  of  time 

To  hide  the  crimson  stains  of  crime  ! 


THE  BRANDED  HAND. 


Wreck  of  a  temple,  unprofaned, — 
Of  courts  where  Peace  with  Freedom 

trod, 
Lifting  on  high,  with  hands  unstained, 

Thanksgiving  unto  God  : 
Where  Mercy's  voice  of  love- was  pjead- 

ing 

For  human   hearts  in  bondage  bleed 
ing  !  — 

Where,  midst  the  sound  of  rushing  feet 
And  curses  on  the  night-air  flung, 

That  pleading  voice  rose  calm  and  sweet 
From  woman's  earnest  tongue  ; 

And  Riot  turned  his  scowling  glance, 

Awed,  from  her  tranquil  countenance  ! 

"hat  temple  now  in  ruin  lies  !  — 
The  fire-stain  on  its  shattered  wall, 

J»  nd  open  to  the  changing  skies 
Its  black  and  roofless  hall, 

1,;  stands  before  a  nation's  sight, 

A  gravestone  over  buried  Right ! 


But  from  that  ruin,  as  of  old, 
The  fire-scorched  stones  themselves 

are  crying, 
And  from  their  ashes  white  and  cold 

Its  timbers  are  replying  ! 
A  voice  which  slavery  cannot  kill 
Speaks    from    the    crumbling    arches 
still  ! 

And  even  this  relic  from  thy  shrine, 
O  holy  Freedom  !  hath  to  me 

A  potent  power,  a  voice  and  sign 
To  testify  of  thee  ; 

And,  grasping  it,  methinks  I  feel 

A  deeper  faith,  a  stronger  zeal. 

And  not  unlike  that  mystic  rod, 
Of  old  stretched  o'er  the  Egyptian 
wave, 

Which  opened,  in  the  strength  of  God, 
A  pathway  for  the  slave, 

It  yet  may  point  the  bondman's  way, 

And  turn  the  spoiler  from  his  prey. 


THE   BRANDED  HAND. 

1846. 

WELCOME  home  again,  brave  seaman  !  with  thy  thoughtful  brow  and  gray, 
And  the  old  heroic  spirit  of  our  earlier,  better  day,  — 
With  that  front  of  calm  endurance,  on  whose  steady  nerve  in  vain 
Pressed  the  iron  of  the  prison,  smote  the  fiery  shafts  of  pain  1 

Is  the  tyrant's  brand  upon  thee  ?     Did  the  brutal  cravens  aim 
To  make  God's  truth  thy  falsehood,  his  holiest  work  thy  shame  ? 
When,  all  blood-quenched,  from  the  torture  the  iron  was  withdrawn, 
How  laughed  their  evil  angel  the  baffled  fools  to  scorn  ! 

They  change  to  wrong  the  duty  which  God  hath  written  out 

On  the  great  heart  of  humanity,  too  legible  for  doubt  ! 

They,  the  loathsome  moral  lepers,  blotched  from  footsole  up  to  crown. 

Give  to  shame  what  God  hath  given  unto  honor  and  renown  ! 

Why,  that  brand  is  highest  honor  !  —  than  its  traces  never  yet 
Upon  old  armorial  hatchments  was  a  prouder  blazon  set ; 
And  thy  unborn  generations,  as  they  tread  our  rocky  strand, 
Shall  tell  with  pride  the  story  of  their- father's  BRANDED  HAND  ! 

As  the  Templar  home  was  welcome,  bearing  back  from  Syrian  war* 

The  scars  of  Arab  lances  and  of  Paynim  scymitars, 

The  pallor  of  the  prison,  and  the  shackle's  crimson  span, 

So  we  meet  thee,  so  we  greet  thee,  truest  friend  of  God  and  man. 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

He  suffered  for  the  ransom 'of  the  dear  Redeemer's  grave, 
Thou  for  his  living  presence  in  the  bound  and  bleeding  slave ; 
He  for  a  soil  no  longer  by  the  feet  of  angels  trod, 
Thou  for  the  true  Shechinah,  the  present  home  of  God  ! 

For,  while  the  jurist,  sitting  with  the  slave-whip  o'er  him  swung, 

From  the  tortured  truths  of  freedom  the  lie  of  slavery  wrung, 

And  the  solemn  priest  to  Moloch,  on  each  God-deserted  shrine, 

Broke  the  bondman's  heart  for  bread,  poured  the  bondman's  blood  for  wine,  • 

While  the  multitude  in  blindness  to  a  far-off  Saviour  knelt, 
And  spurned,  the  while,  the  temple  where  a  present  Saviour  dwelt ; 
Thou  beheld'st  him  in  the  task-field,  in  the  prison  shadows  dim, 
And  thy  mercy  to  the  bondman,  it  was  mercy  unto  him  ! 

In  thy  lone  and  long  night-watches,  sky  above  and  wave  below, 
Thou  didst  learn  a  higher  wisdom  than  the  babbling  schoolmen  know ; 
God's  stars  and  silence  taught  thee,  as  his  angels  only  can, 
That  the  one  sole  sacred  thing  beneath  the  cope  of  heaven  is  Man  ! 

That  he  who  treads  profanely  on  the  scrolls  of  law  and  creed, 
In  the  depth  of  God's  great  goodness  may  find  mercy  in  his  need; 
But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  SOUL  with  chain  and  rod, 
And  herds  with  lower  natures  the  awful  form  of  God  ! 

Then  lift  that  manly  right-hand,  bold  ploughman  of  the  wave  ! 
Its  branded  palm  shall  prophesy,  "  SALVATION  TO  THE  SLAVE  !  " 
Hold  up  its  fire-wrought  language,  that  whoso  reads  may  feel 
His  heart  swell  strong  within  him,  his  sinews  change  to  steel. 

Hold  it  up  before  our  sunshine,  up  against  our  Northern  air,  — 
Ho  !  men  of  Massachusetts,  for  the  love  of  God,  look  there  ! 
Take  it  henceforth  for  your  standard,  like  the  Bruce's  heart  of  yore, 
In  the  dark  strife  closing  round  ye,  let  that  hand  be  seen  before  1 

And  the  tyrants  of  the  slave-land  shall  tremble  at  that  sign, 
When  it  points  its  finger  Southward  along  the  Puritan  line  : 
Woe  to  the  State-gorged  leeches  and  the  Church's  locust  band, 
When  they  look  from  slavery's  ramparts  on  the  coming  of  that  hand ! 


TEXAS. 

VOICE    OF   NEW   ENGLAND. 

UP  the  hillside,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen  ; 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men  ! 

Like  a  lion  growling  low,  — 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow,  — 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe,  — 


It  is  coming,  —  it  is  nigh  ! 
Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by  ; 
On  your  own  free  thresholds  die. 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires ; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal-fires. 

From  Wachuset,  lone  and  bleak, 

Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak, 

Let  the  flame-tongued  heralds  speak. 


TO  FANEUIL   HALL. 


O,  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 

Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow  ! 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race,  — 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party,  —  perish  clan  ; 
Strike  together  while  ye  can, 
Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man. 

Like  that  angel's  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime. 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time,  — 

With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth, 
Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both  : 

"  What  though  Issachar  be  strong  ! 
Ye  may  load  his  back  with  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long  : 

"  Patience  with  her  cup  o'errun, 
With  her  weary  thread  outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

"  Make  our  Union-bond  a  chain, 
Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom's  strain 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

"  Vainly  shall  your  sand-wrought  rope 
Bind  the  starry  cluster  up, 
Shattered  over  heaven's  blue  cope  ! 

"  Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays, 
Rather  than  eternal  haze, 
Clouding  o'er  the  full-orbed  blaze. 

"  Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom  ; 

Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 

For  her  plough,  and  forge,  and  loom ; 

"  Take  your  slavery-blackened  vales  ; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

"  Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain  apart; 
Break  the  Union's  mighty  heart  ^ 


"  Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will  ; 
Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow  and  deepen  still. 

"  With  your  bondman's  right  arm  bare, 
With  his  heart  of  black  despair, 
Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare  ! 

"  Onward  with  your  fell  design  ; 
Dig  the  gulf  and  draw  the  line  : 
Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine  : 

"  Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and  this, 
Shall  ye  feel  your  helplessness. 

"  By  the  hearth,  and  in  the  bed, 
Shaken  by  a  look  or  tread, 
Ye  shall  own  a  guilty  dread. 

"And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward  through  your  generous  soil 
Like  a  fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

"  Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow, 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow  ;  — 

"  And  when   vengeance    clouds    your 

skies, 

Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 
As  the  lost  on  Paradise  ! 

"  We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom's  strong  and  honest  hand,  — 

"  Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod, 
And  the  Pilgrim's  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers'  God  !  " 


TO   FANEUIL  HALL. 

1844. 

MEN  ! — if  manhood  still  ye  claim, 

If  the  Northern  pulse  can  thrill, 
Roused  by  wrong  or  stung  by  shame, 

Freely,  strongly  still,  — 
Let  the  sounds  of  traffic  die  : 

Shut  the  mill-gate,—  leave thestall,- 
Fling  the  axe  and  hammer  by,  — 

Throng  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 


86 


VOICRS  OF  FREEDOM. 


Wrongs  which  freemen  neverbrooked, — 

Dangers  grim  and  fierce  as  they, 
Which,  like  couching  lions,  looked 

On  your  fathers'  way,  — 
These  your  instant  zeal  demand, 

Shaking  with  their  earthquake-call 
Every  rood  of  Pilgrim  land, 

Ho,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

From  your  capes  and  sandy  bars,  — 

From  your  mountain-ridges  cold, 
Through  whose  pines  the  westering  stars 

Stoop  their  crowns  of  gold,  — 
Come,  and  with  your  footsteps  wake 

Echoes  from  that  holy  wall  ; 
Once  again,  for  Freedom's  sake, 

Rock  your  fathers'  hall ! 

Up,  and  tread  beneath  your  feet 

Every  cord  by  party  spun  ; 
Let  your  hearts  together  beat 

As  the  heart  of  one. 
Banks  and  tariffs,  stocks  and  trade, 

Let  them  rise  or  let  them  fall : 
Freedom  asks  your  common  aid,  — 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Up,  and  let  each  voice  that  speaks 

Ring  from  thence  to  Southern  plains, 
Sharply  as  the  blow  which  breaks 

Prison-bolts  and  chains  ! 
Speak  as  well  becomes  the  free  : 

Dreaded  more  than  steel  or  ball, 
Shall  your  calmest  utterance  be, 

Heard  from  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Have  they  wronged  us  ?    Let  us  then 

Render  back  nor  threats  nor  prayers  ; 
Have  they  chained  our  free-boru  men  ? 

LET  US  UNCHAIN  THEIRS  ! 

Up,  your  banner  leads  the  van. 
Blazoned,  "  Liberty  for  all  !  " 

Finish  what  your  sires  began  ! 
Up,  to  Faneuii  Hall ! 


TO   MASSACHUSETTS. 

1844. 

WHAT  though  around  thee  blazes 
No  fiery  rallying  sign  ? 


From  all  thy  own  high  places. 
Give  heaven  the  light  of  thine  ! 

What  though  unthrilled,  unmoving. 
The  statesman  stands  apart, 

And  comes  no  warm  approving 
From  Mammon's  crowded  mart  ? 

Still,  let  the  land  be  shaken 

By  a  summons  of  thine  own  ! 
By  all  save  truth  forsaken, 

Why,  stand  with  that  alone  ! 
Shrink  not  from  strife  unequal  ! 

With  the  best  is  always  hope  ; 
And  ever  in  the  sequel 

God  holds  the  right  side  up  ! 

But  when,  with  thine  uniting, 

Come  voices  long  and  loud, 
And  far-off  hills  are  writing 

Thy  fire-words  on  the  cloud  ; 
When  from  Penobscot's  fountains 

A  deep  response  is  heard, 
And  across  the  Western  mountains 

Rolls  back  thy  rallying  word ; 

Shall  thy  line  of  battle  falter, 

With  its  allies  just  in  view? 
O,  by  hearth  and  holy  altar, 

My  fatherland,  be  true  ! 
Fling  abroad  thy  scrolls  of  Freedom  f 

Speed  them  onward  far  and  fast  I 
Over  hill  and  valley  speed  them, 

Like  the  sibyl's  on  the  blast ! 

Lo  !  the  Empire  State  is  shaking 

The  shackles  from  her  hand  ; 
With  the  rugged  North  is  waking 

The  level  sunset  land  ! 
On  they  come,  —  the  free  battalions  ! 

East  and  West  and  North  they  comi'y 
A*id  the  heart-beat  of  the  millions 

Is  the  beat  of  Freedom's  drum. 

'  To  the  tyrant's  plot  no  favor  ! 

No  heed  to  place-fed  knaves  ! 
Bar  and  bolt  the  door  forever 

Against  the  land  of  slaves  !  " 
Hear  it,  mother  Earth,  and  hear  it, 

The  Heavens  above  us  spread  ! 
The  land  is  roused,  — its  spirit 

Was  sleeping,  but  not  dead  ! 


LINES. 


87 


THE   PINE-TREE. 

1846. 

LIFT  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State's  rusted  shield, 
Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine-Tree  on  our  banner's  tattered  field. 
Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their  Bibles  round  the  board, 
Answering  England's  royal  missive  with  a  firm,  "  THUS  SAITH  THE  LORD  1 " 
Rise  again  for  home  and  freedom  !  —  set  the  battle  in  array  !  — 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we  their  sons  must  do  to-day. 

Tell  us  not  of  banks  and  tariffs,  —  cease  your  paltry  pedler  cries,  — 
Shall  the  good  State  sink  her  honor  that  your  gambling  stocks  may  rise  ? 
Would  ye  barter  man  for  cotton?  —  That  your  gains  may  sum  up  higher, 
Must  we  kiss  the  feet  of  Moloch,  pass  our  children  through  the  fire? 
Is  the  dollar  only  real  ?  —  God  and  truth  and  right  a  dream  ? 
Weighed  against  your  lying  ledgers  must  our  manhood  kick  the  beam? 

O  my  God  !  —  for  that  free  spirit,  which  of  old  in  Boston  town 

Smote  the  Province  House  with  terror,  struck  the  crest  of  Andros  down  !  — 

For  another  strong-voiced  Adams  in  the  city's  streets  to  cry, 

"  Up  for  God  and^Massachusetts  !  —  Set  your  feet  on  Mammon's  lie  ! 

Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic,  — spin  your  cotton's  latest  pound,  - — 

But  in  Heaven's  name  keep  your  honor,  — keep  the  heart  o'  the  Bay  State  sound  ! " 

Where  's  the  MAN  for  Massachusetts?  —  Where  's  the  voice  to  speak  her  free?  — 

Where  's  the  hand  to  light  up  bonfires  from  her  mountains  to  the  sea? 

Beats  her  Pilgrim  pulse  no  longer?—  Sits  she  dumb  in  her  despair?  — 

Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence? —  Has  she  none  to  do  and  dare? 

O  my  God  !  for  one  right  worthy  to  lift  up  her  rusted  shield, 

And  to  plant  again  the  Pine-Tree  in  her  banner's  tattered  field ! 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  VISIT  TO  THE  CITY 
OF  WASHINGTON,  IN  THE  I2TH 
MONTH  OF  1845. 

WITH  a  cold  and  wintry  noon-light, 
"  On  its  roofs  and  steeples  shed, 
Shadows  weaving  with  the  sunlight 

From  the  gray  sky  overhead, 
Broadly,  vaguely,  all  around  me,  lies 
the  half-built  town  outspread. 

Through  this  broad   street,  restless 

ever, 

Ebbs  and  flows  a  human  tide, 
Wave  on  wave  a  living  river  ; 

Wealth  and  fashion  side  by  side  ; 
Toiler,  idler,  slave  and  master,  in  the 
same  quick  current  glide. 


Underneath  yon  dome,  whose  coping 
Springs  above  them,  vast  and  tall, 
Grave  men  in  the  dust  are  groping 
For  the  largess,  base  and  small, 
Which  the  hand  of  Power  is  scattering, 
crumbs  which  from  its  table  fall. 

Base  of  heart !    They  vilely  barter 

Honor's  wealth  for  party's  place  : 

Step  by  step  on  Freedom's  charter 

Leaving  footprints  of  disgrace  ; 

For  to-day's  poor  pittance  turning  from 

the  great  hope  of  their  race. 

Yet,  where  festal  lamps  are  throwing 

Glory  round  the  dancer's  hair, 
Gold-tressed,  like  an  angel's,  flowing 

Backward  on  the  sunset  air  ; 
And  the  low  quick  pulse  of  music  beats 
its  measures  sweet  and  rare  : 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


There  to-night  shall  woman's  glances, 

Star-like,  welcome  give  to  them, 
Fawning  fools  with  shy  advances 

Seek  to  touch  their  garments'  hem, 

With  the  tongue  of  flatteryglozing  deeds 

which  God  and  Truth  condemn. 

From  this  glittering  lie  my  vision 
Takes  a  broader,  sadder  range, 
Full  before  me  have  arisen 

Other  pictures  dark  and  strange  ; 
From  the  parlor  to  the  prison  must  the 
scene  and  witness  change. 

Hark  !  the  heavy  gate  is  swinging 
On  its  hinges,  harsh  and  slow  ; 
One  pale  prison  lamp  is  flinging 

On  a  fearful  group  below 
Such  a  light  as  leaves  to  terror  whatso 
e'er  it  does  not  show. 

Pitying  God  ! —  Is  that  a  WOMAN 

On  whose  wrist  the  shackles  clash? 
Is  that  shriek  she  utters  human, 
Underneath  the  stinging  lash? 
Are  they  MEN  whose   eyes   of  madness 
from  that  sad  procession  flash  ? 

Still  the  dance  goes  gayly  onward  ! 

What  is  it  to  Wealth  and  Pride 

That  without  the  stars  are  looking 

On  a  scene  which  earth  should  hide? 
That  the  SLAVE-SHIP  lies  in   waiting, 
rocking  on  Potomac's  tide  ! 

Vainly  to  that  mean  Ambition 

Which,  upon  a  rival's  fall, 
Winds  above  its  old  condition, 
With  a  reptile's  slimy  crawl, 
Shall  the  pleading  voice  of  sorrow,  shall 
the  slave  in  anguish  call. 

Vainly  to  the  child  of  Fashion, 

Giving  to  ideal  woe 
Graceful  luxury  of  compassion, 

Shall  the  stricken  mourner  go  ; 
Hateful  seems  the  earnest  sorrow,  beau 
tiful  the  hollow  show  ! 

Nay,  my  words  are  all  too  sweeping  : 

In  this  crowded  human  mart, 
Feeling  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping  ; 

Man'sstrong  will  and  woman 'sheart, 
In  the  coming  strife  for  Freedom,  yet 
shall  bear  their  generous  part. 


And  from  yonder  sunny  valleys, 

Southward  in  the  distance  lost,  i 

Freedom  yet  shall  summon  allies 

Worthier  than  the  North  can  boast, 
With  the  Evil   by  their  hearth-stones 
grappling  at  severer  cost. 

Now,  the  soul  alone  is  willing  : 

Faint  the  heart  and  weak  the  knee  ; 
And  as  yet  no  lip  is  thrilling 

With  the  mighty  words,  "BE  FREE!" 
Tarrieth  long  the  land's  Good  Angel, 
but  his  advent  is  to  be  ! 

Meanwhile,  turning  from  the  revel 

To  the  prison-cell  my  sight, 
For  intenser  hate  of  evil, 

For  a  keener  sense  of  right, 
Shaking  off  thy  dust,  I  thank  thee,  City 
of  the  Slaves,  to-night ! 

"To  thy  duty  now  and  ever  ! 

Dream  no  more  of  rest  or  stay ; 

Give  to  Freedom's  great  endeavor 

%  All  thou  art  and  hast  to-day"  :  — 

Thus,  above  the  city's  murmur,  saith  a 

Voice,  or  seems  to  say. 

Ye  with  heart  and  vision  gifted 
To  discern  and  love  the  right, 
Whose  worn  faces  have  been  lifted 

To  the  slowly-growing  light, 
Where  from  Freedom's  sunrise  drifted 
slowly  back  the  murk  of  night !  — 

Ye  who  through  long  years  of  trial 

Still  have  held  your  purpose  fast, 

While  a  lengthening  shade  the  dial 

From  the  westering  sunshine  cast, 
And  of  hope  each  hour's  denial  seemed 
an  echo  of  the  last !  — 

O  my  brothers !  O  my  sisters  > 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  near, 
Gazing  with  me  down  the  vistas 
Of  a  sorrow  strange  and  drear  ; 
Would  to  God  that  ye  were  listeners  to 
the  Voice  I  seem  to  hear ! 

With  the  stoi-m  above  i?s  driving, 

With  the  false  earthminedbelow.— 
Who  shall  marvel  if  thus  striving 
We  have  counted  friend  as  foe  ; 
Unto  one  another  giving  in  the  darkness 
blow  for  blow. 


YORKTOWN. 


89 


Well  it  may  be  that  our  natures 

Have  grown  sterner  and  more  hard, 
And  the  freshness  of  their  features 

Somewhat  harsh  andbattle-scarred, 
And  their  harmonies   of  feeling   over 
tasked  and  rudely  jarred. 

Be  it  so.     It  should  not  swerve  us 
From  a  purpose  true  and  brave ; 
Dearer  Freedom's  rugged  service 
Than  the  pastime  of  the  slave  ; 
Better  is  the  storm  above  it  than  the 
quiet  of  the  grave. 

Let  us  then,  uniting,  bury 

All  our  idle  feuds  in  dust, 
And  to  future  conflicts  carry 

Mutual  faith  and  common  trust ;  _ 
Always  he   who  most  forgiveth  in  his 
brother  is  most  just. 

From  the  eternal  shadow  rounding 
All  our  sun  and  starlight  here,     - 
Voices  of  our  lost  ones  sounding 

Bid  us  be  of  heart  and  cheer, 

Through  the  silence,  down  the  spaces, 

falling  on  the  inward  ear. 

Know  we  not  our  dead  are  looking 

Downward  with  a  sad  surprise, 
All  our  strife  of  words  rebuking 

With  their  mild  and  loving  eyes? 
Shall  we  grieve  the  holy  angels  ?    Shall 
we  cloud  their  blessed  skies  ? 

Let  us  draw  their  mantles  o'er  us 
Which  have  fallen  in  our  way; 
Let  us  do  the  work  before  us, 

Cheerly,  bravely,  while  we  may, 
Ere  the  long  night-silence  cometh,  and 
with  us  it  is  not  day  ! 


LINES, 

FROM   A    LETTER    TO    A   YOUNG   CLERI 
CAL    FRIEND. 

A  STRENGTH  Thy  service  cannot  tire, — 
A  faith  which  doubt  can  never  dim,  — 

A  heart  of  love,  a  lip  of  fire,  — 

O  Freedom's  God!  be  thou  to  him! 


Speak  through  him  words  of  power  and 
fear, 

As  through  thy  prophet  bards  of  old, 
And  let  a  scornful  people  hear 

Once  more  thy  Sinai-thunders  rolled. 

For  lying  lips  thy  blessing  seek, 
And  handsof  blood  are  raised  toThee, 

And  on  thy  children,  crushed  and  weak, 
The  -oppressor  plants   his   kneeling 
knee. 

Let  then,  O  God  !  thy  servant  dare 
Thy  truth  in  all  its  power  to  tell, 
Unmask  the  priestly  thieves,  and  tear 
from  the 


he  grasp  of  hell  ! 


The  Bible  f 


From  hollow  rite  and  narrow  span 
Of  law  and  sect  by  Thee  released, 

O,  teach  him  that  the  Christian  man 
Is  holier  than  the  Jewish  priest. 

Chase  back  the  shadows,  gray  and  old, 
Of  the  dead  ages,  from  his  way, 

And  let  his  hopeful  eyes  behold 
The  dawn  of  thy  millennial  day  ;  — 

That  day  when  fettered  limb  and  mind 
Shall  know  the  truth  which  maketh 

free, 
And  he  alone  who  loves  his  kind 

Shall,    childlike,   claim  the   love  of 
Thee  ! 


YORKTOWN.3« 

FROM   Yorktown's  ruins,   ranked  and 

still, 

Two  lines  stretch  far  o'er  vale  and  hill : 
Who  curbs  his  steed  at  head  of  one  ? 
Hark!  the  low  murmur  :  Washington! 
Who  bends  his  keen,  approving  glance 
Where  down  the  gorgeous  line  of  France 
Shine  knightly  star  and  plume  of  snow  ? 
Thou  too  art  victor,  Rochambeau  ! 

The  earth  which  bears  this  calm  array 
Shook  with  the  war-charge  yesterday, 
Ploughed  deep  with  hurrying  hoof  and 

wheel, 

Shot-sown  and  bladed  thick  with  steel ; 
October's  clear  and  noonday  sun 
Paled  in  the  breath-smoke  "of  the  gun, 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


And  down  night's  double  blackness  fell, 
Like  a  dropped  star,  the  blazing  shell. 

Now  all  is  hushed  :  the  gleaming  lines 
Stand    moveless    as   the    neighboring 

pines  ; 
While  through  them,  sullen,  grim,  and 

slow, 

The  conquered  hosts  of  England  go  : 
O'Hara's  brow  belies  his  dress, 
Gay  Tarleton's  troop  rides  bannerless  : 
Shout,  from  thy  fired  and  wasted  homes, 
Thy  scourge,  Virginia,  captive  comes  ! 

Nor  thou  alone  :  with  one  glad  voice 
Let  all  thy  sister  States  rejoice  ; 
Let  Freedom,  in  whatever  clime 
She  waits  with  sleepless  eye  her  time, 
Shouting  from  cave  and  mountain  wood 
Make  glad  her  desert  solitude, 
While   they  who  hunt  her  quail  with 

fear; 
The   New  World's  chain   lies  broken 

here! 

But  who  are  they,  who,  cowering,  wait 
Within  the  shattered  fortress  gate  ? 
Dark  tillers  of  Virginia's  soil, 
Classed  with  the  battle's  common  spoil, 
With  household  stuffs,   and  fowl,  and 

swine, 

With  Indian  weed  and  planters'  wine, 
With  stolen  beeves,  and  foraged  corn, — 
Are  they  not  men,  Virginian  born  ? 

O,  veil  your  faces,  young  and  brave  ! 
Sleep,  Scammel,  in  thy  soldier  grave  ! 
Sons  of  the  Northland,  ye  who  set 
Stout  hearts  against  the  bayonet, 
And  pressed  with  steady  footfall  near 
The  moated  battery's  blazing  tier, 
Turn  your  scarred  faces  from  the  sight, 
Let  shame  do  homage  to  the  right ! 

Lo  !  threescore  years  have  passed  ;  and 

where 

The  Gallic  timbrel  stirred  the  air, 
With  Northern  drum-roll,  and  the  clear, 
Wild  horn-blow  of  the  mountaineer, 
While  Britain  grounded  on  that  plain 
The  arms  she  might  not  lift  again, 
As  abject  as  in  that  old  day 
The  slave  still  toils  his  life  away. 


O,  fields  still  green  and  fresh  in  story, 
Old  days  of  pride,  old  names  of  glory, 
Old  marvels  of  the  tongue  and  pen, 
Old  thoughts  which  stirred  the  hearts  of 

men, 

Ye  spared  the  wrong  ;  and  over  all 
Behold  the  avenging  shadow  fall ! 
Your  world-wide  honor  stained  with 

shame,  — 
Your  freedom's  self  a  hollow  name  ! 

Where  's  now  the  flag  of  that  old  war? 
Where  flows  its  stripe  ?     Where  burns 

its  star  ? 

Bear  witness,  Palo  Alto's  day, 
Dark  Vale  of  Palms,  red  Monterey, 
Where    Mexic    Freedom,    young  and 

weak, 

Fleshes  the  Northern  eagle's  beak  : 
Symbol  of  terror  and  despair, 
Of  chains  and  slaves,  go  seek  it  there  ! 

Laugh,  Prussia,  midst  thy  iron  ranks  ! 
Laugh,  Russia,  from  thy  Neva's  banks ! 
Brave  sport  to  see  the  fledgling  born 
Of  Freedom  by  its  parent  torn  ! 
Safe  now  is  Speilberg's  dungeon  cell, 
Safe  drear  Siberia's  frozen  hell  : 
With  Slavery's  flag  o'er  both  unrolled, 
What  of  the  New  World  fears  the  Old  ? 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  BOOK    OF   A    FRIEND. 

ON  page  of  thine  I  cannot  trace 
The    cold    and     heartless     common 
place,  — 
A  statue's  fixed  and  marble  grace. 

For  ever  as  these  lines  I  penned, 
Still  with  the  thought  of  thee  will  blend 
That    of    some    loved    and    common 
friend,  — 

Who  in  life's  desert  track  has  made 
His  pilgrim  tent  with  mine,  or  strayed 
Beneath  the  same  remembered  shade. 

And  hence  my  pen  unfettered  moves 
In  freedom  which  the  heart  approves,  — 
The  negligence  which  friendship  loves. 


LINES. 


And  wilt  thou  prize  my  poor  gift  less 

For  simple  air  and  rustic  dress, 

And  sign  of  haste  and  carelessness  ?  — 

O,  more  than  specious  counterfeit 

Of  sentiment  or  studied  wit, 

A  heart  like  thine  should  value  it. 

Yet  half  I  fear  my  gift  will  be 
Unto  thy  book,  if  not  to  thee, 
Of  more  than  doubtful  courtesy. 

A  banished  name  from  fashion's  sphere, 
A  lay  unheard  of  Beauty's  ear, 
Forbid,     disowned,  —  what     do     they 
here?  — 

Upon  my  ear  not  all  in  vain 

Came  the  sad  captive's  clankingchain, — 

The  groaning  from  his  bed  of  pain. 

And  sadder  still,  I  saw  the  woe 
Which  only  wounded  spirits  know 
When    Pride's    strong  footsteps    o'er 
them  go. 

Spurned  not  alone  in  walks  abroad, 
But  from  the  "temples  of  the  Lord  " 
Thrust  out  apart,  like  things  abhorred. 

Deep  as  I  felt,  and  stern  and  strong, 
In  words  which  Prudence  smothered 

long, 
My  soul  spoke  out  against  the  wrong  ; 

Not  mine  alone  the  task  to  speak 
Of  comfort  to  the  poor  and  weak, 
And  dry  the  tear  on  Sorrow's  cheek  ; 

But,  mingled  in  the  conflict  warm, 
To  pour  the  fiery  breath  of  storm 
Through  the  harsh  trumpet  of  Reform  ; 

To  brave  Opinion's  settled  frown, 
From  ermined  robe  and  saintly  gown, 
While  wrestlingreverenced  Error  down. 

Founts  gushed  beside  my  pilgrim  way, 
Cool  shadows  on  the  greensward  lay, 
Flowers  swung  upon  the  bending  spray. 

And,  broad  and  bright,  on  either  hand, 
Stretched  the  green  slopes  ofFairy-land, 
With  Hope's  eternal  sunbow  spanned  ; 


Whence  voices  called  me  like  the  flow, 
Which  on  the  listener's  ear  will  grow, 
Of  forest  streamlets  soft  and  low. 

And  gentle  eyes,  which  still  retain 
Their  picture  on  the  heart  and  brain, 
Smiled,  beckoning  from  that   path   of 
pain. 

In  vain  !  —  nor   dream,   nor  rest,  nor 

pause 

Remain  for  him  who  round  him  draws 
The  battered  mail  of  Freedom's  cause. 

From     youthful    hopes,  —  from    each 

green  spot 

Of  young  Romance,  and  gentle  Thought, 
Where  storm  and  tumult  enter  not,  — 

From  each  fair  altar,  where  belong 
The  offerings  Love  requires  of  Song 
In  homage  to  her  bright-eyed  throng,  — 

With  soul  and  strength,  with  heart  and 

hand, 

IturnedtoFreedom'sstrugglingband, — 
To  the  sad  Helots  of  our  land. 

What  marvel  then  that  Fame   should 

turn 

Her  notes  of  praise  to  those  of  scorn,  — 
Her  gifts  reclaimed,  —  her  smiles  with 
drawn  ? 

What  matters  it  !  —  a  few  years  more, 
Life's  surge  so  restless  heretofore 
Shall  break  upon  the  unknown  shore  1 

In  that  far  land  shall  disappear 

The  shadows  which  we  follow  here,  — 

The  mist-wreaths  of  our  atmosphere  ! 

Before  no  work  of  mortal  hand, 
Of  human  will  or  strength  expand 
The  pearl  gates  of  the  Better  Land  ; 

Alone  in  that  great  love  which  gave 
Life  to  the  sleeper  of  the  grave, 
Resteth  the  power  to  "  seek  and  save." 

Yet,  if  the  spirit  gazing  through 

The  vista  of  the  past  can  view 

One  deed  to  Heaven  and  virtue  true,  — 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


If  through  the  wreck  of  wasted  powers, 
Of  garlands    wreathed    from     Folly's 

bowers, 
Of  idle  aims  and  misspent  hours,  — 

The  eye  can  note  one  sacred  spot 

By  Pride  and  Self  profaned  not,  — 

A  green  place  in  thewasteof  thought , — 

Where  deed  or  word  hath  rendered  less 
"The  sum  of  human  wretchedness," 
And  Gratitude  looks  forth  to  bless,  — 

The  simple  burst  of  tenderest  feeling 
From  sad  hearts  worn  by  evil-dealing, 
For  blessing  on  the  hand  of  healing,  — 

Better  than  Glory's  pomp  will  be 
That  greeu  and  blessed  spot  to  me,  — 
A  palm-shade  in  Eternity  !  — 

Something  of  Time  which  may  invite 
The  purified  and  spiritual  sight 
To  rest  on  with  a  calm  delight. 

And  when   the   summer    winds    shall 

sweep 

With  their  light  wings  my  place  of  sleep, 
And  mossesround  my  headstone  creep, — 

If  still,  as  Freedom's  rallying  sign, 
Upon  the  young  heart's  altars  shine 
The  very  fires  they  caught  from  mine,  — 

If  words  my  lips  once  uttered  still, 
In  the  calm  faith  and  steadfast  will 
Of  other  hearts,  their  work  fulfil,  — 

Perchance  with  joy  the  soul  may  learn 
These  tokens,  and  its  eye  discern 
The  fires  which  on  those  altars  burn,  — 

A  marvellous  joy  that  even  then, 

The  spirit  hath  its  life  again, 

In  the  strong  hearts  of  mortal  men. 

Take,  lady,  then,  the  gift  I  bring, 

No  gay  and  graceful  offering,  — 

No  flower-smile  of  the  laughing  spring. 

Midst  the  green  buds  of  Youth's  fresh 

May, 

With  Fancy's  leaf-enwoven  bay, 
My  sad  and  sombre  gift  I  lay. 


And  if  it  deepens  in  thy  mind 

A  sense  of  suffering  human-kind,  — • 

The  outcast  and  the  spirit-blind  : 

Oppressed  and  spoiled  on  every  side, 
By  Prejudice,  and  Scorn,  and  Pride, 
Life's  common  courtesies  denied  ; 

Sad  mothers  mourning  o'er  their  trust, 
Children  by  want  and  misery  nursed, 
Tasting  life's  bitter  cup  at  first ; 

If  to  their  strong  appeals  which  come 
From  fireless  hearth,  and  crowded  room. 
And  the  close  alley's  noisome  gloom,  -  - 

Though  dark  the  hands  upraised  to  thfV 

In  mute  beseeching  agony, 

Thou  lend'st  thy  woman's  sympathy,  J 

Not  vainly  on  thy  gentle  shrine, 
Where  Love,  and  Mirth,  and  Friend 

ship  twine  » 

Their  varied  gifts,  I  offer  mine. 


P.EAN. 


Now,  joy  and  thanks  forevermore  ! 

The  dreary  night  haswellnigh  passed 
The  slumbers  of  the  North  are  o'er,  • 

The  Giant  stands  erect  at  last ! 

More  than  we  hoped  in  that  dark  tinu 
When,  faint  with  watching,  few  arj 
worn, 

We  saw  no  welcome  day-star  climb 
The  cold  gray  pathway  of  the  morn  ! 

O  weary  hours !  O  night  of  years  ! 
What   storms  our  darkling  pathway 

swept, 
Where,    beating  back    our    thronging 

fears, 
By  Faith  alone  our  inarch  we  kept. 

How  jeered  the  scoffing  crowd  behind, 
How  mocked  before  the  tyrant  train, 

As,  one  by  one,  the  true  and  kind 
Fell  fainting  in  our  path  of  pain  ! 

They  died,  —  their  brave  hearts  break- 

ing  slow,  — 
But,  self-forgetful  to  the  last, 


TO   THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  SHIPLEY. 


93 


In  words  of  cheer  and  bugle  blow 
Their    breath    upon    the     darkness 
passed. 

A  mighty  host,  on  either  hand, 
Stood  waiting  tor  the  dawn  of  day 

To  crush  like  reeds  our  feeble  band  ; 
The  morn  has  come,  —  and  where 
are  they  ? 

Troop  after  troop  their  line  forsakes  ; 

With   peace-white    banners    waving 

free, 
And  from  our  own  the  glad  shoutbreaks, 

Of  Freedom  and  Fraternity  ! 

Like  mist  before  the  growing  light, 
The  hostile  cohorts  melt  away  ; 

Our  frowning  foemen  of  the  night 
Are  brothers  at  the  dawn  of  day ! 

A.S  unto  these  repentant  ones 
We  open  wide  our  toil-worn  ranks, 

Along  our  line  a  murmur  runs 
Of   song,    and  praise,    and  grateful 
thanks. 

Sound  for  the  onset  !  —  Blast  on  blast ! 

Till   Slavery's    minions    cower    and 

quail ; 
One  charge  of  fire  shall  drive  them  fast 

Like  chaff  before  our  Northern  gale  ! 

O  prisoners  in  your  house  of  pain, 
Dumb,   toiling  millions,   bound  and 

sold, 
Look  !  stretched  o'er  Southern  vale  and 

plain, 
The  Lord's  delivering  hand  behold  ! 

Above  the  tyrant's  pride  of  power, 
His  iron  gates  and  guarded  wall, 

The    bolts    which    shattered   Shinar's 

tower 
Hang,  smoking,  for  a  fiercer  fall. 

Awake  !  awake  !  my  Fatherland  ! 

It  is  thy  Northern  light  that  shines  ; 
This  stirring  march  of  Freedom's  band 

The  storm-song ofthy mountain  pines. 

Wake,  dwellers  where  the  day  expires  ! 

And  hear,  in  winds  that  sweep  your 

lakes 
And  fan  your  prairies'  roaring  fires, 

The  signal-call  that  Freedom  makes  ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS 
SHIPLEY. 

GONE  to  thy  Heavenly  Father's  rest ! 
The  flowers  of  Eden  round  thee  blow- 

!»§>. 

And  on  thine  ear  the  murmurs  blest 

Of  Siloa's  waters  softly  flowing  ! 
Beneath  that  Tree  of  Life  which  gives 
To  all  the  earth  its  healing  leaves 
In  the  white  robe  of  angels  clad, 

And  wandering  by  that  sacred  river, 
Whose  streams  of  holiness  make  glad 
The  city  of  our  God  forever  ! 

Gentlest  of  spirits  !  —  not  for  thee 

Ourtears  are  shed,  our  sighsare  given ; 
Why  mourn  to  know  thou  art  a  free 

Partaker  of  the  joys  of  Heaven  ? 
Finished  thy  work,  and  kept  thy  faith 
In  Christian  firmness  unto  death  ; 
And  beautiful  as  sky  and  earth, 

When   autumn's  sun    is    downward 

going 
The  blessed  memory  of  thy  worth 

Around  thy  place  of  slumber  glowing  ! 

But  woe  for  us  !  who  linger  still 

With  feebler  strength  and  hearts  less 

lowly, 
And  minds  less  steadfast  to  the  will 

Of  Him  whose  every  work  is  holy. 
For  not  like  thine,  is  crucified 
The  spirit  of  our  human  pride  : 
And  at  the  bondman's  tale  of  woe, 

And  for  the  outcast  and  forsaken, 
Not  warm  like  thine,  but  cold  and  slow, 

Our  weaker  sympathies  awaken. 

Darkly  upon  our  struggling  way 

Thestorm  of  human  hate  is  sweeping; 
Hunted  and  branded,  and  a  prey, 

Our  watch  amidst  the  darkness  keep 
ing, 

O  for  that  hidden  strength  which  can 
Nerve  unto  death  the  inner  man  ! 
O  for  thy  spirit,  tried  and  true, 

And  constant  in  the  hour  of  trial, 
Prepared  to  suffer,  or  to  do, 

In  meekness  and  in  self-denial. 

O  for  that  spirit,  meek  and  mild, 
Derided,   spurned,  yet  uncomplain 
ing,— 


94 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


By  man  deserted  and  reviled, 

Yet  faithful  to  its  trust  remaining. 
Still  prompt  and  resolute  to  save 
Fromscourge  and  chain  the  huntedslave; 

Unwavering  in  the  Truth's  defence, 
Even  where  the  fires  of  Hate  were 
burning, 

The  unquailiug  eye  of  innocence 
Alone  upon  the  oppressor  turning  1 

O  loved  of  thousands  !  to  thy  grave, 
Sorrowing  of  heart,  thy  brethren  bore 

thee. 
The  poor  man  and  the  rescued  slave 

Wept  as  the  broken  earth  closed  o'er 

thee; 

And  grateful  tears,  like  summer  rain, 
Quickened  its  dying  grass  again  ! 
And  there,  as  to  some  pilgrim-shrine, 

Shall  come  the  outcast  and  the  lowly, 
Of  gentle  deeds  and  words  of  thine 

Recalling  memories  sweet  and  holy  ! 

O  for  the  death  the  righteous  die  ! 

An  end,  like  autumn's  day  declining, 
On  human  hearts,  as  on  the  sky, 

With  holier,  tenderer  beauty  shining; 
As  to  the  parting  soul  were  given 
The  radiance  of  an  opening  Heaven  1 
As  if  that  pure  and  blessed  light, 

From  off  the  Eternal  altar  Mowing, 
Were  bathing,  in  its  upward  flight, 

The  spirit  to  its  worship  going  ! 


TO     A     SOUTHERN     STATES 
MAN. 


Is  this  thy  voice,  whose  treble  notes  of 

fear 
Wail   in   the  wind  ?     And   dost   thou 

shake  to  hear, 
Actson-like,    the   bay  of  thine    own 

hounds, 
Spurning  the  leash,   and  leaping  o'er 

their  bounds  ? 
Sore-baffled  statesman !  when  thy  eager 

hand, 
With  game  afoot,  unslipped  the  hungry 

pack, 
To  hunt  down  Freedom  in  her  chosen 

land, 


Hadst    thou    no    fear,    that,    erelong, 

doubling  back, 
These   dogs   of  thine   might  snuff  on 

Slavery's  track? 
Where 's  now  the  boast,  which  even 

thy  guarded  tongue, 
Cold,  calm,  and  proud,  in  the  teeth  o' 

the  Senate  flung, 

O'er  the  fulfilment  of  thy  baleful  plan, 
Like   Satan's    triumph  at  the   fall   of 

man  ? 
How  stood'st  thou  then,  thy  feet  on 

Freedom  planting, 

And  pointing  to  the  lurid  heaven  afar, 
Whence    all    could    see,   through  the 

south  windows  slanting, 
Crimson  as  blood,  the  beams  of  that 

Lone  Star  ! 
The  Fates  are  just ;  they  give  us  but 

our  own  ; 
Nemesis  ripens  what  our  hands  have 

sown. 

There  is  an  Eastern  story,  not  unknown, 
Doubtless,  to  thee,  of  one  whose  magic 

skill 

Called  demons  up  his  water-jars  to  fill ; 
Deftly  and  silently,  they  did  his  will, 
But,   when   the   task  was   done,   kept 

pouring  still, 

In  vain  with  spell  and  charm  the  wiz 
ard  wrought, 
Faster  and  faster  were    the    buckets 

brought, 

Higher  and  higher  rose  the  flood  around, 
Till  the   fiends    clapped    their    hands 

above  their  master  drowned  ! 
So,  Carolinian,  it  may  prove  with  thee, 
For  God  still  overrules  man's  schemes, 

and  takes 
Craftiness    in    its    self-set    snare,   and 

makes 
The  wrath  of  man  to  praise  Him.     It 

may  be, 

That  the  roused  spirits  of  Democracy 
May  leave   to  freer   States  the   same 

wide  door 
Through  which  thy  slave-cursed  Texas 

entered  in, 
From  out  the  blood  and  fire,  the  wrong 

and  sin, 
Of  the   stormed  city  and  the  ghastly 

plain, 
Beat  by  hot  hail,  and  wet  with  bloody 

rain, 


LINES. 


95 


A  myriad-handed  Aztec  host  may  pour, 
And  swarthy  South  with  pallid  North 

combine 
Back  on  thyself  to  turn  thy  dark  design. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  ADOPTION  OF 
PINCKNEY'S  RESOLUTIONS,  IN  THE 
HOUSE  OF  REPRESENTATIVES,  AND 
THE  PASSAGE  OF  CALHOUN'S  "BILL 

FOR  EXCLUDING  PAPERS  WRITTEN 
OR  PRINTED,  TOUCHING  THE  SUB 
JECT  OF  SLAVERY  FROM  THE  U.  S. 
POST-OFFICE,"  IN  THE  SENATE  OF 
THE  UNITED  STATES. 

MEN  of  the  North-land  !  where  's  the 

manly  spirit 

Of   the    true-hearted    and    the    un 
shackled  gone  ? 

Sons  of  old  freemen,  do  we  but  inherit 
Their  names  alone  ? 

Is    the    old    Pilgrim   spirit   quenched 

within  us, 
Stoops  the  strong  manhood   of  our 

souls  so  low, 

That  Mammon's  lure  or  Party's  wile 
can  win  us 

To  silence  now  ? 

Now,  when  our  land  to  ruin's  brink  is 

verging, 
In  God's  name,  let  us  speak  while 

there  is  time  ! 

Now,  when  the  padlocks  for  our  lips 
are  forging, 

Silence  is  crime  ! 

What !  shall  we  henceforth  humbly  ask 

as  favors 
Rights  all   our  own  ?     In   madness 

shall  we  barter, 

For    treacherous    peace,    the   freedom 
Nature  gave  us, 

God  and  our  charter? 

Here  shall  the  statesman  forge  his  hu 
man  letters, 

Herethefalse  jurist  human  rightsdeny, 
And,   in  the  church,  their  proud  and 
skilled  abettors 

Make  truth  a  lie? 


Torture  the  pages  of  the  hallowed  Bi 
ble, 
To  sanction  crime,  and  robbery,  and 

blood  ? 

And,  in   Oppression's  hateful  service, 
libel 

Both  man  and  God? 

Shall  our  New  England  stand  erect  no 

longer, 

But  stoop  in  chains  upon  her  down 
ward  way, 

Thicker  to  gather  on  her  limbs  and 
stronger 

Day  after  day  ? 

O    no ;    methinks   from   all  her  wild, 

green  mountains,  — 
From  valleys  where  her  slumbering 

fathers  lie,  — 

From  her  blue  rivers  and  her  welling 
fountains, 

And  clear,  cold  sky,  — 

From  her  rough  coast,  and  isles,  which 

hungry  Ocean 
Gnaws  with  his  surges,  —  from  the 

fisher's  skiff, 

With  white  sail  swaying  to  the  billows' 
motion 

Round  rock  and  cliff, — 

From  the  free  fireside  of  her  unbought 

farmer,  — 
From  her  free  laborer  at  his  loom  and 

wheel,  — 

From  the  brown   smith-shop,   where, 
beneath  the  hammer, 

Rings  the  red  steel,  — 

From  each  and  all,  if  God  hath  not 

forsaken 
Our   land,   and  left   us   to   an    evil 

choice, 

Loud  as  the  summer  thunderbolt  shall 
waken 

A  People's  voice. 

Startling    and    stern !     the    Northern 

winds  shall  bear  it 

Over  Potomac's  to  St.  Mary's  wave  ; 
And  buried  Freedom  shall  awake  to 
hear  it 

Within  her  grave. 


96 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


O,  let  that  voice  go  forth  !    The  bond 
man  sighing 
By  Santee's  wave,   in  Mississippi's 

cane, 

Shall  feel  the  hope,  within  his  bosom 
dying, 

Revive  again. 

Let  it  go  forth  !     The  millions  who  are 

gazing 

Sadly  upon  us  from  afar,  shall  smile, 
And   unto   God   devout    thanksgiving 
raising, 

Bless  us  the  while. 

O  for  your  ancient  freedom,  pure  and 

holy, 
For  the  deliverance  of  a  groaning 

earth, 

For    the  wronged    captive,    bleeding, 
crushed,  and  lowly, 

Let  it  go' forth  ! 

Sons  of  the  best  of  fathers  !   will  ye 

falter 
With  all  they  left  ye  perilled  and  at 

stake  ? 

Ho !    once   again  on   Freedom's  holy 
altar 

The  fire  awake  ! 

Prayer-strengthened  for  the  trial,  come 

together, 
Put  on   the  harness  for  the  moral 

fight, 

And,  with  the  blessing  of  your  Heav 
enly  Father, 

MAINTAIN  THE  RIGHT  ! 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  CHAR 
TER-BREAKERS/* 

IN  Westminster's  royal  halls, 
Robed  in  their  pontificals, 
England's  ancient  prelates  stood 
For  the  people's  right  and  good. 

Closed  around  the  waiting  crowd. 
Dark  and  still,  like  winter's  cloud  ; 
King  and  council,  lord  and  knight, 
Squire  and  yeoman,  stood  in  sight,  — 


Stood  to  hear  the  priest  rehearse, 
In  God's  name,  the  Church's  curse, 
By  the  tapers  round  them  lit, 
Slowly,  sternly  uttering  it. 

"  Right  of  voice  in  framing  laws, 
Right  of  peers  to  try  each  cause  ; 
Peasant  homestead,  mean  and  small, 
Sacred  as  the  monarch's  hall,  — 

"  Whoso  lays  his  hand  on  these, 
England's  ancient  liberties,  — 
Whoso  breaks,  by  word  or  deed, 
England's  vow  at  Runnymede,  — 

"  Be  he  Prince  or  belted  knight, 
Whatsoe'er  his  rank  or  might, 
If  the  highest,  then  the  worst, 
Let  him  live  and  die  accursed. 

"  Thou,  who  to  thy  Church  hast  given 
Keys  alike,  of  hell  and  heaven, 
Make  our  word  and  witness  sure, 
Let  the  curse  we  speak  endure  !  " 

Silent,  while  that  curse  was  said, 
Every  bare  and  listening  head 
Bowed  in  reverent  awe,  and  then 
All  the  people  said,  Amen  ! 

Seven  times  the  bells  have  tolled, 
For  the  centuries  gray  and  old, 
Since  that  stoled  and  mitred  band 
Cursed  the  tyrants  of  their  land. 

Since  the  priesthood,  like  a  tower, 
Stood  between  the  poor  and  power  ; 
And  the  wronged  and  trodden  down 
Blessed  the  abbot's  shaven  crown. 

Gone,  thank  God,  their  wizard  spell, 
Lost,  their  keys  of  heaven  and  hell  ; 
Yet  I  sigh  for  men  as  bold 
As  those  bearded  priests  of  old. 

Now,  too  oft  the  priesthood  wait 
At  the  threshold  of  the  state,  — 
Waiting  for  the  beck  and  nod 
Of  its  power  as  law  and  God. 

Fraud  exults,  while  solemn  words 
Sanctify  his  stolen  hoards  ; 
Slavery  laughs,  while  ghostly  lips 
Bless  his  manacles  and  whips. 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE, 


97 


Not  on  them  the  poor  rely, 

Not  to  them  looks  liberty. 

Who  with  fawning  falsehood  cower 

To  the  wrong,  when  clothed  with  power. 

O,  to  see  them  meanly  cling, 
Round  the  master,  round  the  king, 
Sported  with,  and  sold  and  bought,  — 
Pitifuller  sight  is  not  ! 

Tell  me  not  that  this  must  be  : 
God's  true  priest  is  always  free  ; 
Free,  the  needed  truth  to  speak, 
Right  the  wronged,  and  raise  the  weak. 

Not  to  fawn  on  wealth  and  state, 
Leaving  Lazarus  at  the  gate,  — 
Not  to  peddle  creeds  like  wares,  — 
Not  to  mutter  hireling  prayers,  — 

Nor  to  paint  the  new  life's  bliss 
On  the  sable  ground  of  this,  — 
Golden  streets  for  idle  knave, 
Sabbath  rest  for  weary  slave  ! 

Not  for  words  and  works  like  these, 
Priest  of  God,  thy  mission  is  ; 
But  to  make  earth's  desert  glad, 
In  its  Eden  greenness  clad  ; 


And  to  level  manhood  bring 
Lord  and  peasant,  serf  and  king ; 
And  the  Christ  of  God  to  find 
In  the  humblest  of  thy  kind  ! 

Thine  to  work  as  well  as  pmy, 
Clearing  thorny  wrongs  away  ; 
Plucking  up  the  weeds  of  sin. 
Letting  heaven's  warm  sunshine  in,  • 

Watching  on  the  hills  of  Faith  ; 
Listening  what  the  spirit  saith, 
Of  the  dim-seen  light  afar, 
Growing  like  a  nearing  star. 

God's  interpreter  art  thou, 
To  the  waiting  ones  below  ; 
'Twixt  them  and  its  light  midway 
Heralding  the  better  day,  — 

Catching  gleams  of  temple  spires, 
Hearing  notes  of  angel  choirs, 
Where,  as  yet  unseen  of  them, 
Comes  the  New  Jerusalem ! 

Like  the  seerofPatmos  gazing, 
On  the  glory  downward  blazing  ; 
Till  upon  Earth's  grateful  sod 
Rests  the  City  of  our  God  ! 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE. 

SUGGESTED    BY   A   DAGUERREOTYPE   FROM   A   FRENCH   ENGRAVING. 

BEAMS  of  noon,  like  burning  lances,  through  the  tree-tops  flash  and  glisten. 
As  she  stands  before  her  lover,  with  raised  face  to  look  and  listen. 

Dark,  but  comely,  like  the  maiden  in  the  ancient  Jewish  song : 
Scarcely  has  the  toil  of  task-fields  done  her  graceful  beauty  wrong. 

He,  the  strong  one  and  the  manly,  with  the  vassal's  garb  and  hue, 
Holding  still  his  spirit's  birthright,  to  his  higher  nature  true  ; 

Hiding  deep  the  strengthening  purpose  of  a  freeman  in  his  heart, 
As  the  greegree  holds  his  Fetich  from  the  white  man's  gaze  apart. 

Ever  foremost  of  his  comrades,  when  the  driver's  morning  horn 
Calls  away  to  stifling  mill-house,  to  the  fields  of  cane  and  corn  : 

Fall  the  keen  and  burning  lashes  never  on  his  back  or  limb  ; 
Scarce  with  look  or  word  of  censure,  turns  the  driver  unto  him. 
7 


98  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Yet,  his  brow  is  always  thoughtful,  and  his  eye  is  hard  and  stern ; 
Slavery's  last  and  humblest  lesson  he  has  never  deigned  to  learn. 

And,  at  evening,  when  his  comrades  dance  before  their  master's  door, 
Folding  arms  and  knitting  forehead,  stands  he  silent  evermore. 

God  be  praised  for  every  instinct  which  rebels  against  a  lot 

Where  the  brute  survives  the  human,  and  man's  upright  form  is  not ! 

As  the  serpent-like  bejuco  winds  his  spiral  fold  on  fold 
Round  the  tall  and  stately  ceiba,  till  it  withers  in  his  hold  ;  — 

Slow  decays  the  forest  monarch,  closer  girds  the  fell  embrace, 
Till  the  tree  is  seen  no  longer,  and  the  vine  is  in  its  place,  — 

So  a  base  and  bestial  nature  round  the  vassal's  manhood  twines, 
And  the  spirit  wastes  beneath  it,  like  the  ceiba  choked  with  vines. 

God  is  Love,  saith  the  Evangel ;  and  our  world  of  woe  and  sin 
Is  made  light  and  happy  only  when  a  Love  is  shining  in. 

Ye  whose  lives  are  free  as  sunshine,  finding,  whereso'er  ye  roam, 
Smiles  of  welcome,  looks  of  kindness,  'making  all  the  world  like  home ; 

In  the  veins  of  whose  affections  kindred  blood  is  but  a  part, 
Of  one  kindly  current  throbbing  from  the  universal  heart ; 

Can  ye  know  the  deeper  meaning  of  a  love  in  Slavery  nursed, 
Last  flower  of  a  lost  Eden,  blooming  in  that  Soil  accursed  ? 

Love  of  Home,  and  Love  of  Woman  !  — dear  to  all,  but  doubly  dear 
To  the  heart  whose  pulses  elsewhere  measure  only  hate  and  fear. 

All  around  the  desert  circles,  underneath  a  brazen  sky, 
Only  one  green  spot  remaining  where  the  dew  is  never  dry ! 

From  the  horror  of  that  desert,  from  its  atmosphere  of  hell, 
Turns  the  fainting  spirit  thither,  as  the  diver  seeks  his  bell. 

'T  is  the  fervid  tropic  noontime  ;  faint  and  low  the  sea-waves  beat ; 
Hazy  rise  the  inland  mountains  through  the  glimmer  of  the  heat,  — 

Where,  through  mingled  leaves  and  blossoms,  arrowy  sunbeams  flash  anw 
Speaks  her  lover  to  the  slave  girl,  and  she  lifts  her  head  to  listen  :  — 

"  We  shall  live  as  slaves  no  longer !     Freedom's  hour  is  close  at  hand  I 
Rocks  her  bark  upon  the  waters,  rests  the  boat  upon  the  strand  ! 

"  I  have  seen  the.  Haytien  Captain  ;  I  have  seen  his  swarthy  crew, 
Haters  of  the  pallid  faces,  tq  their  race  and  color  true. 

"  They  have  sworn  to  wait  our  coming  till  the  night  has  passed  its  noon, 
And  the  gray  and  darkening  waters  roll  abeve  the  sunken  moon  !  " 


THE   CRISIS.  99 

0  the  blessed  hope  of  freedom  !  how  with  joy  and  glad  surprise, 
For  an  instant  throbs  her  bosom,  for  an  instant  beam  her  eyes  ! 

But  she  looks  across  the  valley,  where  her  mother's  hut  is  seen, 
Through  the  snowy  bloom  of  coffee,  and  the  lemon-leaves  so  green. 

And  she  answers,  sad  and  earnest :  "  It  were  wrong  for  thee  to  stay  ; 
God  hath  heard  thy  prayer  for  freedom,  and  his  finger  points  the  way. 

"Well  I  know  with  what  endurance,  for  the  sake  of  me  and  mine, 
Thou  hast  borne  too  long  a  burden  never  meant  for  souls  like  thine. 

"  Go ;  and  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  when  our  last  farewell  is  o'er, 
Kneeling  on  our  place  of  parting,  I  will  bless  thee  from  the  shore. 

"  But  for  me,  my  mother,  lying  on  her  sick-bed  all  the  day, 

Lifts  her  weary  head  to  watch  me,  coming  through  the  twilight  gray. 

"  Should  I  leave  her  sick  and  helpless,  even  freedom,  shared  with  thee, 
Would  be  sadder  far  than  bondage,  lonely  toil,  and  stripes  to  me. 

"  For  my  heart  would  die  within  me,  and  my  brain  would  soon  be  wild  ; 

1  should  hear  my  mother  calling  through  the  twilight  for  her  child  !  " 

Blazing  upward  from  the  ocean,  shines  the  sun  of  morning-time, 
Through  the  coffee-trees  in  blossom,  and  green  hedges  of  the  lime. 

Side  by  side,  amidst  the  slave-gang,  toil  the  lover  and  the  maid  ; 
Wherefore  looks  he  o'er  the  waters,  leaning  forward  on  his  spade? 

Sadly  looks  he,  deeply  sighs  he  :  't  is  the  Haytien's  sail  he  sees,    - 
Like  a  white  cloud  of  the  mountains,  driven  seaward  by  the  breeze  ! 

But  his  arm  a  light  hand  presses,  and  he  hears  a  low  voice  call : 
Hate  of  Slavery,  hope  of  Freedom,  Love  is  mightier  than  all. 


THE  CRISIS. 

WRITTEN   ON   LEARNING  THE   TERMS   OF  THE  TREATY   WITH   MEXICO. 

ACROSS  the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the  desert's  drouth  and  sand, 
The  circles  of  our  empire  touch  the  Western  Ocean's  strand; 
From  slumberous  Timpanogos,  to  Gila,  wild  and  free, 
Flowing  down  from  Nuevo-Leon  to  California's  sea  ; 
And  from  the  mountains  of  the  East,  to  Santa  Rosa's  shore, 
The  eagles  of  Mexitli  shall  beat  the  air  no  more. 

O  Vale  of  Rio  Bravo  !     Let  thy  simple  children  weep ; 
Close  watch  about  their  holy  fire  let  maids  of  Pecos  keep  ; 
Let  Taos  send  her  cry  across  Sierra  Madre's  pines, 
And  Algodones  toll  her  bells  amidst  her  corn  and  vines  : 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

For  lo  !  the  pale  land-seekers  come,  with  eager  eyes  of  gain, 
Wide  scattering,  like  the  bison  herds  on  broad  Salada's  plain. 

Let  Sacramento's  herdsmen  heed  what  sound  the  winds  bring  down 

Of  footsteps  on  the  crisping  snow,  from  cold  Nevada's  crown  ! 

Full  hot  and  fast  the  Saxon  rides,  with  rein  of  travel  slack, 

And,  bending  o'er  his  saddle,  leaves  the  sunrise  at  his  back  : 

By  many  a  lonely  river,  and  gorge  of  fir  and  pine, 

On  many  a  wintry  hill-top,  his  nightly  camp-fires  shine. 

O  countrymen  and  brothers  !  that  land  of  lake  and  plain, 

Of  salt  wastes  alternating  with  valleys  fat  with  grain  ; 

Of  mountains  white  with  winter,  looking  downward,  cold,  serene, 

On  their  feet  with  spring-vines  tangled  and  lapped  in  softest  green  ; 

Swift  through  whose  black  volcanic  gates,  o'er  many  a  sunny  vale, 

Wind-like  the  Arapahoe  sweeps  the  bison's  dusty  trail  ! 

Great  spaces  yet  untravelled,  great  lakes  whose  mystic  shores 

The  Saxon  rifle  never  heard,  nor  dip  of  Saxon  oars  ; 

Great  herds  that  wander  all  unwatched,  wild  steeds  that  none  have  tamedf 

Strange  fish  in  unknown  streams,  and  birds  the  Saxon  never  named  ; 

Deep  mines,  dark  mountain  crucibles,  where  Nature's  chemic  powers 

Work  out  the  Great  Designer's  will ;  —  all  these  ye  say  are  ours  ! 

Forever  ours  !  for  good  or  ill,  on  us  the  burden  lies  ; 

God's  balance,  watched  by  angels,  is  hung  across  the  skies. 

Shall  Justice,  Truth,  and  Freedom  turn  the  poised  and  trembling  scale  ? 

Or  shall  the  Evil  triumph,  and  robber  Wrong  prevail? 

Shall  the  broad  land  o'er  which  our  flag  in  starry  splendor  waves, 

Forego  through  us  its  freedom,  and  bear  the  tread  of  slaves? 

The  day  is  breaking  in  the  East  of  which  the  prophets  told, 

And  brightens  up  the  sky  of  Time  the  Christian  Age  of  Gold; 

Old  Might  to  Right  is  yielding,  battle  blade  to  clerkly  pen, 

Earth's  monarchs  are  her  peoples,  and  her  serfs  stand  up  as  men  ; 

The  isles  rejoice  together,  in  a  day  are  nations  born, 

And  the  slave  walks  free  in  Tunis,  and  by  Stamboul's  Golden  Horn  \ 

Is  this,  O  countrymen  of  mine  !  a  day  for  us  to  sow 

The  soil  of  new-gained  empire  with  slavery's  seeds  of  woe? 

To  feed  with  our  fresh  life-blood  the  Old  World's  cast-off  crime, 

Dropped,  like  some  monstrous  early  birth,  from  the  tired  lap  of  Time? 

To  run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  lost  nations  ran, 

And  die  like  them  of  unbelief  of  God,  and  wrong  of  man  ? 

Great  Heaven  !     Is  this  our  mission  ?     End  in  this  the  prayers  and  tears, 
The  toil,  the  strife,  the  watchings  of  our  younger,  better  years? 
Still  as  the  Old  World  rolls  in  light,  shall  ours  in  shadow  turn, 
A  beamless  Chaos,  cursed  of  God,  through  outer  darkness  borne  ? 
Where  the  far  nations  looked  for  light,  a  blackness  in  the  air  ? 
Where  for  words  of  hope  they  listened,  the  long  wail  of  despair  ? 


The  Crisis  presses  on  us  ;  face  to  face  with  us  it  stands, 
With  solemn  lips  of  question,  like  the  Sphinx  in  t^ypt's  sands 


THE   CRISIS. 

This  day  we  fashion  Destin}',  our  web  of  Fate  we  spin  ; 
This  day  for  all  hereafter  choose  we  holiness  or  sin  ; 
Even  now  from  starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal's  cloudy  crown, 
We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts  of  cursing  down  ! 

By  all  for  which  the  martyrs  bore  their  agony  and  shame  ; 
By  all  the  warning  words  of  truth  with  which  the  prophets  came 
By  the  Future  which  awaits  us ;  by  all  the  hopes  which  cast 
Their  faint  and  trembling  beams  across  the  blackness  of  the  Past ; 
And  by  the  blessed  thought  of  Him  who  for  Earth's  freedom  died, 
O  my  people  !  O  my  brothers  !  let  us  choose  the  righteous  side. 

So  shall  the  Northern  pioneer  go  joyful  on  his  way  ; 

To  wed  Penobscot's  waters  to  San  Francisco's  bay  ; 

To  make  the  rugged  places  smooth,  and  sow  the  vales  with  grain  ; 

And  bear,  with  Liberty  and  Law,  the  Bible  in  his  train  : 

The  mighty  West  shall  bless  the  East,  and  sea  shall  answer  sea, 

And  mountain  unto  mountain  call,  PRAISE  GOD,  FOR  WF  ARE  FREE  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN. 

ERE  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hills 

The  sun  shall  sink  again, 
Farewell  to  life  and  all  its  ills, 

Farewell  to  cell  and  chain. 

These  prison  shades  are  dark  andcold,  — 

But,  darker  far  than  they, 
The  shadow  of  a  sorrow  old 

Is  on  my  heart  alway. 

For  since  the  day  when  Warkworth  wood 
Closed  o'er  my  steed  and  I, 

An  alien  from  my  name  and  blood, 
A  weed  cast  out  to  die,  — 

When,  looking  back  in  sunset  light, 

I  saw  her  turret  gleam, 
And  from  its  casement,  far  and  white, 

Her  sign  of  farewell  stream, 

Like  one  who,  from  some  desert  shore, 
Doth  home's  green  isles  descry, 

And,  vainly  longing,  gazes  o'er 
The  waste  of  wave  and  sky  ; 

So  from  the  desert  of  my  fate 

I  gaze  across  the  past ; 
Forever  on  life's  dial-plate 

The  shade  is  backward  cast  I 

I  've  wandered  wide  from  shore  to  shore, 
I  've  knelt  at  many  a  shrine  ; 

And  bowed  me  to  the  rocky  floor 
Where  Bethlehem's  tapers  shine  ; 

And  by  the  Holy  Sepulchre 

I  've  pledged  my  knightly  sword 

To  Christ,  his  blessed  Church,  and  her, 
The  Mother  of  our  Lord. 


O,  vain  the  vow,  and  vain  the  strife  ! 

How  vain  do  all  things  seem  ! 
My  soul  is  in  the  past,  and  life 

To-day  is  but  a  dream  ! 

In  vain  the  penance  strange  and  long, 

And  hard  for  flesh  to  bear  ; 
The  prayer,  the  fasting,  and  the  thong 

And  sackcloth  shirt  of  hair. 

The  eyes  of  memory  will  not  sleep,  — 

Its  ears  are  open  still ; 
And  vigils  with  the  past  they  keep 

Against  my  feeble  will. 

And  still  the  loves  and  joys  of  old 

Do  evermore  uprise  ; 
I  see  the  flow  of  locks  of  gold, 

The  shine  of  loving  eyes  ! 

Ah  me  !  upon  another's  breast 
Those  golden  locks  recline  ; 

I  see  upon  another  rest 
The  glance  that  once  was  mine. 

"  O     faithless    priest !  —  O     perjured 
knight  !  " 

I  hear  the  Master  cry ; 
"  Shut  out  the  vision  from  thy  sight, 

Let  Earth  and  Nature  die. 

"  The  Church  of  God  is  now  thy  spouse, 
And  thou  the  bridegroom  art ; 

Then  let  the  burden  of  thy  vows 
Crush  down  thy  human  heart  !  " 

In  vain  !  This  heart  its  grief  must  know, 

Till  life  itself  hath  ceased, 
And  falls  beneath  the  selfsame  blow 

The  lover  and  the  priest ! 


MIS  CELL  A  NEOUS. 


O  pitying  Mother  !  souls  of  light, 
And  saints,  and  martyrs  old  ! 

Pray  for  a  weak  and  sinful  knight, 
A  suffering  man  uphold. 

Then  let  the  Paynim  work  his  will, 
And  death  unbind  my  chain, 

Ere  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hill 
The  sun  shall  fall  again. 


THE    HOLY    LAND. 

FROM    LAMARTINE. 

I  HAVE  not  felt,  o'er  seas  of  sand, 

The  rocking  of  the  desert  bark  ; 
Nor  laved  at  Hebron's  fount  my  hand, 

By   Hebron's  palm-trees    cool   and 

dark  ; 
Nor  pitched  my  tent  at  even-fall, 

On  dust  where  Job  of  old  has  lain, 
Nor  dreamed  beneath  its  canvas  wall, 

The  dream  of  Jacob  o'er  again. 

One  vast  world-page  remains  unread  ; 

How  shine  the  stars  in  Chaldea's  sky, 
How    sounds    the    reverent    pilgrim's 
tread, 

How  beats  the  heart  with  God  so 

nigh  !  — 
How  round  gray  arch  and  column  lone 

The  spirit  of  the  old  time  broods, 
And  sighs  in  all  the  winds  that  moan 

Along  the  sandy  solitudes  ! 

In  thy  tall  cedars,  Lebanon, 

I  have  not  heard  the  nations'  cries, 
Nor  seen  thy  eagles  stooping  down 

Where  buried  Tyre  in  ruin  lies. 
The  Christian's  prayer  I  have  not  said 

In  Tadmor's  temples  of  decay, 
Nor  startled,  with  my  dreary  tread, 

The  waste  where  Memnon's  empire 
lay. 

Nor  have  I,  from  thy  hallowed  tide, 
O  Jordan  !  heard  the  low  lament, 
Like  that  sad  wail  along  thy  side 
Which     Israel's    mournful    prophet 

sent  ! 

Nor  thrilled  within  that  grotto  lone 
Where,  deep  in  night,  the  Bard  of 
Kings 


Felt  hands  of  fire  direct  his  own, 
And  sweep  for  God  the  conscious 
strings. 

I  have  not  climbed  to  Olivet, 

Nor  laid  me  where  my  Saviour  lay, 
And  left  his  trace  of  tears  as  yet 

By  angel  eyes  unwept  away  ; 
Nor  watched,  at  midnight'ssolemn  time, 

The  garden   where  his  prayer  and 

groan, 
Wrung  by  his  sorrow  and  our  crime, 

Rose  to  One  listening  ear  alone. 

I  have  not  kissed  the  rock-hewn  grot 
Where  in  his  Mother's  arms  he  lay 
Nor  knelt  upon  the  sacred  spot 
Where  last  his  footsteps  pressed  the 

clay  ; 

Nor  looked  on  that  sad  mountain  head, 
Nor  smote  my  sinful   breast,  where 

wide 

His  arms  to  fold  the  world  he  spread, 
And  bowed  his  head  to  bless  —  and 
died! 


PALESTINE. 

BLEST  land  of  Judaea  !  thrice  hallowed 
of  song, 

Where  the  holiest  of  memories  pilgrim- 
like  throng  ; 

In  the  shade  of  thy  palms,  bv  the  shores 
of  thy  sea. 

On  the  hills  of  thy  beauty,  my  heart  is 
with  thee. 

With  the  eye  of  a  spirit  I  look  on  that 
shore, 

Where  pilgrim  and  prophet  have  lin 
gered  before  ; 

With  the  glide  of  a  spirit  I  traverse  the 
sod 

Made  bright  by  the  steps  of  the  angels 
of  God. 

Blue  sea  of  the  hills  !  —  in  my  spirit  I 
hear 

Thy  waters,  Genesaret,  chime  on  my 
ear  ; 

Where  the  Lowly  and  Just  with  the 
people  sat  down, 

And  thy  spray  on  the  dust  of  hi*  san 
dals  was  thrown. 


PALESTINE. 


107 


Beyond  are  Bethulia's  mountains  of 
green, 

And  the  desolate  hills  of  the  wild  Gad- 
arene  ; 

And  I  pause  on  the  goat-crags  of  Tabor 
to  see 

The  gleam  of  thy  waters,  O  dark  Gal 
ilee  I 

Hark,  a  sound  in  the  valley  !  where, 
swollen  and  strong, 

Thy  river,  O  Kishon,  is  sweeping 
along ; 

Where  the  Canaanite  strove  with  Je 
hovah  in  vain, 

And  thy  torrent  grew  dark  with  the 
blood  of  the  slain. 

There  down  from  his  mountains  stern 
Zebulon  came, 

And  Naphtali's  stag,  with  his  eyeballs 
of  flame, 

And  the  chariots  of  Jabin  rolled  harm 
lessly  on, 

For  the  arm  of  the  Lord  was  Abino- 
am's  son  ! 

There  sleep  the  still  rocks  and  the  cav 
erns  which  rang 

To  the  song  which  the  beautiful  proph 
etess  sang, 

When  the  princes  of  Issachar  stood  by 
her  side, 

And  the  shout  of  a  host  in  its  triumph 
replied. 

Lo,  Bethlehem's  hill-site  before  me  is 

seen, 
With   the  mountains  around,  and  the 

valleys  between  ; 
There  rested  the  shepherds  of  Judah, 

and  there 
The  song  of  the  angels  rose  sweet  on 

the  air. 

And   Bethany's  palm-trees  in  beauty 

still  throw 
Their  shadows  at  noon  on  the  ruins 

below  ; 
But  where  are  the  sisters  who  hastened 

to  greet 
The  lowly  Redeemer,    and  sit  at  his 

feet? 


I  tread  where  the  TWELVE  in  their 

wayfaring  trod  ; 
I    stand   where   they   stood   with    the 

CHOSEN  OF  GOD,  — 
Where  his  blessing  was  heard  and  his 

lessons  were  taught, 
Where  the  blind  were  restored  and  the 

healing  was  wrought. 

O,  here  with  his  flock  the  sad  Wan 
derer  came,  — 

These  hills  he  toiled  over  in  grief  are 
the  same,  — 

The  founts  where  he  drank  by  the 
wayside  still  flow, 

And  the  same  airs  are  blowing  which 
breathed  on  his  brow  ! 

And  throned  on  her  hills  sits  Jerusa 
lem  yet, 

But  with  dust  on  her  forehead,  and 
chains  on  her  feet ; 

For  the  crown  of  her  pride  to  the 
mocker  hath  gone, 

And  the  holy  Shechinah  is  dark  where 
it  shone. 

But  wherefore  this  dream  of  the  earthly 
abode 

Of  Humanity  clothed  in  the  brightness 
of  God  ^ 

Were  my  spirit  but  turned  from  the 
outward  and  dim, 

It  could  gaze,  even-now,  on  the  pres 
ence  of  Him ! 

Not  in  clouds  and  in  terrors,  but  gentle 

as  when, 
In  love  and  in  meekness,  He  moved 

among  men  ; 
And  the  voice  which  breathed  peace  to 

the  waves  of  the  sea 
In  the  hush  of  my  spirit  would  whisper 

to  me  1 

And  what  if  my  feet  may  not  tread 
where  He  stood, 

Nor  my  ears  hear  the  dashing  of  Gal 
ilee's  flood, 

Nor  my  eyes  see  the  cross  which  He 
bowed  him  to  bear, 

Nor  my  knees  press  Gethsemane's 
garden  of  prayer. 


io8 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Yet,  Loved  of  the  Father,  thy  Spirit  is 
near 

To  the  meek,  and  the  lowly,  and  peni 
tent  here  ; 

And  the  voice  of  thy  love  is  the  same 
even  now 

As  at  Bethany's  tomb  or  on  Olivet's 
brow. 

O,  the  outward  hath   gone  !  — but   in 

glory  and  power, 
The  SPIRIT  surviveth  the  things  of  an 

hour ; 
Unchanged,  undecaying,  its  Pentecost 

flame 
On  the  heart's  secret  altar  is  burning 

the  same ! 


EZEKIEL. 

CHAPTER   XXXIII.    30-33. 

THEY  hear  thee  not,  O  God  !  nor  see ; 
Beneath  thy  rod  they  mock  at  thee  ; 
The  princes  of  our  ancient  line 
Lie  drunken  with  Assyrian  wine  ; 
The  priests  around  thy  altar  speak 
The  false  words  which  their  hearers  seek; 
And  hymns  which  Chaldea's  wanton 

maids 

Have  sung  in  Dura's  idol-shades 
Are  with  the  Levites'  chant  ascending, 
With  Zion's  holiest  anthems  blending  ! 

On  Israel's  bleeding  bosom  set, 
The  heathen  heel  is  crushing  yet ; 
The  towers  upon  our  holy  hill 
Echo  Chaldean  footsteps  still. 
Our  wasted  shrines,  —  who  weeps  for 

them  ? 

Who  mourneth  for  Jerusalem  ? 
Who  turneth  from  his  gains  away? 
Whose  knee  with  mine  is  bowed  to  pray? 
Who,  leaving  feast  and  purpling  cup, 
Takes  Zion's  lamentation  up  ? 

A  sad  and  thoughtful  youth,  I  went 
With  Israel's  early  banishment  ; 
And  where  the  sullen  Chebar  crept, 
The  ritual  of  my  fathers  kept. 
The  water  for  the  trench  I  drew, 
The  firstling  of  the  flock  I  slew, 


And,  standing  at  the  altar's  side, 
I  shared  the  Levites'  lingering  pride, 
That  still,  amidst  her  mocking  foes, 
The  smoke  of  Zion's  offering  rose. 

In  sudden  whirlwind,  cloud  and  flame,. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Highest  came  ! 
Before  mine  eyes  a  vision  passed, 
A  glory  terrible  and  vast ; 
With  dreadful  eyes  of  living  things, 
And  sounding  sweep  of  angel  wings, 
With  circling  light  and  sapphire  throne, 
And  flame-like  form  of  One  thereon, 
And  voice  of  that  dread  Likeness  sent 
Down  from  the  crystal  firmament ! 

The  burden  of  a  prophet's  power 
Fell  on  me  in  that  fearful  hour  ; 
From  off  unutterable  woes 
The  curtain  of  the  future  rose  ; 
I  saw  far  down  the  coming  time 
The  fiery  chastisement  of  crime  ; 
With  noise  of  mingling  hosts,  and  jar 
Of  falling  towers  and  shouts  of  war, 
I  saw  the  nations  rise  and  fall, 
Like  fire-gleams  on  mytent'swhite  wall. 

In  dream  and  trance,  I  saw  the  slain 
Of  Egypt  heaped  like  harvest  grain  , 
I  saw  the  walls  of  sea-born  Tyre 
Swept  over  by  the  spoiler's  fire  ; 
And  heard  the  low,  expiring  moan 
Of  Edom  on  his  rocky  throne  ; 
And,  woe  is  me  !  the  wild  lament 
From  Zion's  desolation  sent ; 
And  felt  within  my  heart  each  blow 
Which  laid  her  holy  places  low. 

In  bonds  and  sorrow,  day  by  day, 
Before  the  pictured  tile  I  lay  ; 
And  there,  as  in  a  mirror,  saw 
The  coming  of  Assyria's  war,— 
Her  swarthy  lines  of  spearmen  pass 
Like  locusts  through  Bethhoron'sgrass; 
I  saw  them  draw  their  stormy  hem 
Of  battle  round  Jerusalem  ; 
And,  listening,  heard  the  Hebrew  waiJ 
Blend  with  the  victor-trump  of  Baal ! 

Who  trembled  at  my  warning  word? 
Who  owned  the  prophet  of  the  Lord  ? 
How  mocked  the  rude,  —  how  scoffed 

the  vile,— 
How  stung  the  Levites'  scornful  smile, 


THE    WIFE   OF  MA  NO  AH   TO  HER  HUSBAND. 


As  o'er  my  spirit,  dark  and  slow, 
The  shadow  crept  of  Israel's  woe, 
As  if  the  angel's  mournful  roll 
Had  left  its  record  on  my  soul, 
And  traced  in  lines  of  darkness  there 
The  picture  of  its  great  despair ! 

Yet  ever  at  the  hour  I  feel 
My  lips  in  prophecy  unseal. 
Prince,  priest,  and  Levite  gather  near, 
And  Salem's  daughters  haste  to  hear, 
On  Chebar's  waste  and  alien  shore, 
The  harp  of  Judah  swept  once  more. 
They  listen,  as  in  Babel's  throng 
The  Chaldeans  to  the  dancer's  song, 
Or  wild  sabbeka's  nightly  play, 
As  careless  and  as  vain  as  they. 


And  thus,  O  Prophet-bard  of  old, 
Hast  thou  thy  tale  of  sorrow  told  ! 
Ihe  same  which  earth's  unwelcome 

seers 

Have  felt  \n  all  succeeding  years. 
Sport  of  the  changeful  multitude, 
Nor  calmly  heard  nor  understood, 
Their  song  has  seemed  a  trick  of  art, 
Their  warnings  but  the  actor's  part. 
With  bonds,  and  scorn,  and  evil  will, 
The  world  requites  its  prophets  still. 

So  was  it  when  the  Holy  One 
The  garments  of  the  flesh  put  on  ! 
Men  followed  where  the  Highest  led 
For  common  gifts  of  daily  bread, 
And  gross  of  ear,  of  vision  dim, 
Owned  not  the  godlike  power  of  him. 
Vain  as  a  dreamer's  words  to  them 
His  wail  above  Jerusalem, 
And  meaningless  the  watch  he  kept 
Through  which  his  weak  disciples  slept. 

Yet  shrink  not  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art, 
For  God's  great  purpose  set  apart, 
Before  whose  far-discerning  eyes, 
The  Future  as  the  Present  lies  ! 
Beyond  a  narrow-bounded  age 
Stretches  thy  prophet-heritage, 
Through  Heaven's  dim  spaces  angel- 
trod, 
Through  arches  round  the   throne   of 

God! 

Thy  audience,  worlds  !  — all  Time  to  be 
The  witness  of  the  Truth  in  thee  I 


THE    WIFE    OF    MANOAH  TO 
HER  HUSBAND. 

AGAINST  the  sunset's  glowing  wall 
The  city  towers  rise  black  and  tall, 
Where  Zorah  on  its  rocky  height, 
Stands  like  an  armed  man  in  the  light. 

Down  Eshtaol's  vales  of  ripened  grain 
Falls  like  a  cloud  the  night  amain, 
And  up  the  hillsides  climbing  slow 
The  barley  reapers  homeward  go. 

Look,  dearest  !  how  our  fair  child's  head 
The  sunset  light  hath  hallowed, 
Where  at  this  olive's  foot  he  lies, 
Uplooking  to  the  tranquil  skies. 

O,  while  beneath  the  fervent  heat 
Thy  sickle  swept  the  bearded  wheat, 
I  've  watched,  with   mingled  joy  and 

dread, 
Our  child  upon  his  grassy  bed. 

Joy,  which  the  mother  feels  alone 
Whose  morning   hope  like   mine  had 

flown, 

When  to  her  bosom,  over  blessed, 
A  dearer  life  than  hers  is  pressed. 

Dread,  for  the  future  dark  and  still, 
Which  shapes  our  dear  one  to  its  will ; 
Forever  in  his  large  calm  eyes, 
I  read  a  tale  of  sacrifice.  — 

The  same  foreboding  awe  I  felt 
When  at  the  altar's  side  we  knelt, 
And  he,  who  as  a  pilgrim  came, 
Rose,  winged  and  glorious,  through  the 
flame. 

I  slept  not,  though  the  wild  bees  made 
A  dreamlike  murmuring  in  the  shade, 
And  on  me  the  warm-fingered  hours 
Pressed  with  the  drowsy  smell  of  flow 
ers. 

Before  me,  in  a  vision,  rose 
The  hosts  of  Israel's  scornful  foes,  — 
Rank  over  rank,  helm,  shield,  and  spear, 
Glittered  in  noon's  hot  atmosphere. 

I  heard  their  boast,  and  bitter  word, 
Their  mockery  of  the  Hebrew's  Lord, 
I  saw  their  hands  his  ark  assail, 
Their  feet  profane  his  holy  veil. 


•  MISCELLANEOUS. 


No  angel  down  the  blue  space  spoke, 
No  thunder  from  the  still  sky  broke  ; 
But  in  their  midst,  in  power  and  a\vc, 
Like  God's  waked  wrath,  OUR  CHILD  I 
saw  ! 

A  child  no  more  !  —  harsh-browed  and 

strong, 

He  towered  a  giant  in  the  throng, 
And  down   his   shoulders,    broad  and 

bare, 
Swept  the  black  terror  of  his  hair. 

He  raised  his  arm  ;  he  smote  amain ; 
As  round  the  reaper  falls  the  grain, 
So  the  dark  host  around  him  fell, 
So  sank  the  foes  of  Israel ! 

Again  I  looked.     In  sunlight  shone 
The  towers  and  domes  of  Askelon. 
Priest,  warrior,  slave,  a  mighty  crowd, 
Within  her  idol  temple  bowed. 

Yet  one  knelt  not ;  stark,  gaunt,  and 

blind, 

His  arms  the  massive  pillars  twined,  — 
An  eyeless  captive,  strong  with  hate, 
He  stood  there  like  an  evil  Fate. 

The  red  shrines  smoked,  —  the  trum 
pets  pealed  : 

He  stooped,  —  the  giant  columns 
reeled,  — 

Reeled  tower  and  fane,  sank  arch  and 
wall, 

And  the  thick  dust-cloud  closed  o'er  all ! 

Above  the  shriek,  the  crash,  the  groan 
Of  the  fallen  pride  of  Askelon, 
1  heard,  sheer  down  the  echoing  sky, 
A  voice  as  of  an  angel  cry,  — 

The  voice  of  him,  who  at  our  side 
Sat  through  the  golden  eventide,  — 
Of  him  who,  on  thy  altar's  blaze, 
Rose    fire-winged,    with    his   song    of 
praise. 

"  Rejoice  o'er  Israel's  broken  chain, 
Gray  mother  of  the  mighty  slain  ! 
Rejoice  !  "  it  cried,  "  he  vanquisheth  ! 
The  strong  in  life  is  strong  in  death  ! 

"To  htm  shall  Zorah's  daughters  raise 
Through  coming  years  their  hymns  of 
praise, 


And  gray  old  men  at  evening  tell 
Of  all  he  wrought  for  Israel. 

"  And  they  who  sing  and  they  who  hear 
Alike  shall  hold  thy  memory  dear, 
And  pour  their  blessings  on  thy  head, 

0  mother  of  the  mighty  dead  !  " 

It  ceased  ;  and  though  a  sound  I  heard 
As  if  great  wings  the  still  air  stirred, 

1  only  saw  the  barley  sheaves 
And  hills  half  hid  by  olive  leaves. 

I  bowed  my  face,  in  awe  and  fear, 
On  the  dear  child  who  slumbered  near. 
"  With  me,  as  with  my  only  son, 
O    God,"     I    said,     "THY    WILL    BE 
DONE ! " 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

"  GET  ye  up  from  the  wrath  of  God's 
terrible  day  ! 

Ungirded,  unsandalled,  arise  and  away  ! 

'Tis  the  vintage  of  blood,  'tis  the  ful 
ness  of  time, 

And  vengeance  shall  gather  the  harvest 
of  crime ! " 

The  warning  was  spoken  :  the  right 
eous  had  gone, 

And  the  proud  ones  of  Sodom  were 
feasting  alone  ; 

All  gay  was  the  banquet ;  the  revel  was 
long, 

With  the  pouring  of  wine  and  the 
breathing  of  song. 

'T  was  an  evening  of  beauty ;  the  air  was 

perfume, 
The  earth  was  all  greenness,  the  trees 

were  all  bloom  ; 

And  softly  the  delicate  viol  was  heard, 
Like  the  murmur  of  love  or  the  notes 

of  a  bird. 

And  beautiful   maidens   moved   down 

in  the  dance, 
With  the  magic  of  motion  and  sunshine 

of  glance ; 
And  white  arms  wreathed  lightly,  and 

tresses  fell  free 
As  the  plumage  of  birds  in  some  trop' 

ical  tree. 


THE  CRUCIFIXION. 


Where  the  shrines  of  foul  idols  were 

lighted  on  high, 
And  wantonness  tempted  the  lust   of 

the  eye  ; 
Midst    rites  of   obsceneness,    strange, 

loathsome,  abhorred, 
The  blasphemer  scoffed  at  the  name  of 

the  Lord. 

Hark  !  the  growl  of  the  thunder,  —  the 

quaking  of  earth  ! 
Woe,  woe  to  the  worship,  and  woe  to 

the  mirth  ! 
The  black  sky  has  opened,  —  there  s 

flame  in  the  air,  — 
The  red  arm  of  vengeance  is  lifted  and 

bare! 

Then  the  shriek  of  the  dying  rose  wild 

where  the  song 
And    the    low  tone  of  love  had  been 

whispered  along  ; 
For  the  fierce  flames  went  lightly  o  er 

palace  and  bower, 
Like  the  red  tongues  of  demons,  to  blast 

and  devour  ! 

Down, —down  on  the  fallen  the  red 
ruin  rained, 

And  the  reveller  sank  with  his  wine- 
cup  undrained  ; 

The  foot  of  the  dancer,  the  music' sieved 
thrill, 

And  the  shout  and  the  laughter  grew 
suddenly  still. 

The  last  throb  of  anguish  was  fearfully 

given  ; 
The  last  eye  glared  forth  in  its  madness 

on  Heaven  ! 
The  last  groan  of  horror  rose  wildly  and 

And  death  brooded  over  the  pride  ol 
the  Plain  1 


THE  CRUCIFIXION. 

SUNLIGHT  upon  Judaea's  hills  ! 

And  on  the  waves  of  Galilee,  — 
On  Jordan's  stream,  and  on  the  rills 

That  feed  the  dead  and  sleeping  sea 


VIostfreshlyfrom  the  green  wood  springs 
Ihe  light  breeze  on  its  scented  wings  ; 
And  gayly  quiver  in  the  sun 
L'he  cedar  tops  of  Lebanon  1 

A  few  more   hours, —  a  change   hath 

come  ! 

The  sky  is  dark  without  a  cloud  ! 
The  shouts  of  wrath  and  joy  are  dumb, 
And   proud    knees   unto    earth    are 

bowed. 

A  change  is  on  the  hill  of  Death, 
The  helmed  watchers  pant  for  breath, 
And  turn  with  wild  and  maniac  eyes 
From  the  dark  scene  of  sacrifice  ! 

That  Sacrifice  !  —  the  death  of  Him,  — 

The  High  and  ever  Holy  One  ! 
Well  may  the  conscious  Heaven  grow 

dim, 

And  blacken  the  beholding  Sun. 
The  wonted  light  hath  fled  away, 
Night  settles  on  the  middle  day, 
And  earthquake  from  his  caverned  bed 
Is  waking  with  a  thrill  of  dread  ! 

The  dead  are  waking  underneath  ! 

Their  prison  door  is  rent  away  ! 
And,  ghastly  with  the  seal  of  death, 

They  wander  in  the  eye  of  day  ! 
The  temple  of  the  Cherubim, 
The  House  of  God  is  cold  and  dim  ; 
A  curse  is  on  its  trembling  walls, 
Its  mighty  veil  asunder  falls  ! 

Well  may  the  cavern-depths  of  Earth 
Be  shaken,  and  her  mountains  nod  ; 
Well  may  the  sheeted  dead  come  forth 

To  gaze  upon  a  suffering  God  ! 
Well  may  the  temple-shrine  grow  dim, 
And  shadows  veil  the  Cherubim, 
When  He,  the  chosen  one  of  Heaven, 
A  sacrifice  for  guilt  is  given  ! 

And  shall  the  sinful  heart,  alone, 

Behold  unmoved  the  atoning  hour, 
When  Nature  trembles  on  her  throne, 
And  Death  resigns  his  iron  power  ? 
O,  shall  the  heart,  —  whose  sinfulness 
Gave  keenness  to  his  sore  distress, 
And  added  to  his  tears  of  blood,  — 
Refuse  its  trembling  gratitude  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  STAR   OF  BETHLEHEM. 

WHERE  Time  the  measure  of  his  hours 
By  changeful  bud  and  blossom  keeps, 

And,  like  a  young  bride   crowned  with 

%  flowers, 
Fair  Shiraz  in  her  garden  sleeps  ; 

Where,  to  her  poet's  turban  stone, 
The  Spring  her  gift  of  flowers  imparts, 

Less  sweet  than  those  his  thoughts  have 

sown 
In  the  warm  soil  of  Persian  hearts : 

There  sat  the  stranger,  where  the  shade 
Of  scattered  date-trees  thinly  lay, 

While  in  the  hot  clear  heaven  delayed 
The  long  and  still  and  weary  day. 

Strange  trees  and  fruits  above  him  hung, 
Strange  odors  filled  the  sultry  air, 

Strange  birds  upon  the  branches  swung, 
Strange  insect  voices  murmured  there. 

And  strange    bright   blossoms    shone 

around, 
Turned   sunward  from  the  shadowy 

bowers, 

As  if  the  Gheber's  soul  had  found 
A  fitting  home  in  Iran's  flowers. 

Whate'er  he  saw,  whate'er  he  heard, 
Awakened  feelings  new  and  sad,  — 

No  Christian  garb,  nor  Christian  word, 
Nor  church  with  Sabbath-bell  chimes 
glad, 

But  Moslem  graves,  with  turban  stones, 
And  mosque-spires  gleaming  white, 
in  view, 

And  graybeard  Mollahs  in  low  tones 
Chanting  their  Koran  service  through. 

The   flowers  which   smiled  on   either 

hand, 
Like  tempting  fiends,  were  such  as 

they 

Which  once,  o'er  all  that  Eastern  land, 
As  gifts  on  demon  altars  lay. 

As  if  the  burning  eye  of  Baal 

The  servant  of  his  Conqueror  knew, 

From  skies  which  knew  no  cloudy  veil, 
The   Sun's  hot  glances  smote  him 
through. 


"  Ah  me  !  "  the  lonely  stranger  said, 
"  The  hope  which  led  my  footsteps  on, 

And   light   from  heaven  around  them 

shed, 
O'er  weary  wave  and  waste,  is  gone  ! 

"  Where  are  the  harvest  fields  all  white, 
For  Truth  to  thrust  her  sickle  in? 

Where   flock   the  souls,  like  doves  in 

flight, 
From  the  dark  hiding-place  of  sin  ? 

"  A  silent  horror  broods  o'er  all,  — 
The  burden  of  a  hateful  spell,  — 

The  very  flowers  around  recall 
The  hoary  magi's  rites  of  hell ! 

"  And  what  am  I,  o'er  such  a  land 
The  banner  of  the  Cross  to  bear? 

Dear  Lord,  uphold  me  with  thy  hand, 
Thy  strength  with  human  weakness 
share  !  " 

He  ceased  ;  for  at  his  very  feet 

In  mild  rebuke  a  floweret  smiled,  — 

How  thrilled  his  sinking  heart  to  greet 
The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin's  child  ! 

Sown  by  some   wandering    Frank,   it 
drew 

Its  life  from  alien  air  and  earth, 
And  told  to  Paynim  sun  and  dew 

The  story  of  the  Saviour's  birth. 

From  scorching  beams,  in  kindly  mood, 
The  Persian  plantsitsbeauty  screened, 

And  on  its  pagan  sisterhood, 

In  love,  the  Christian  floweret  leaned. 

With  tears  of  joy  the  wanderer  felt 
The  darkness  of  his  long  despair 

Before  that  hallowed  symbol  melt, 
Which  God's  dear  love  had  nurtured 
there. 

From  Nature's  face,  that  simple  flower 
The  lines  of  sin  and  sadness  swept ; 

And  Magian  pile  and  Paynim  bower 
In  peace  like  that  of  Eden  slept. 

Each  Moslem  tomb,  and  cypress  old, 
Looked  holy  through  the  sunset  air  t 

And,  angel-like,  the  Muezzin  told 
From  tower  and  mosque  the  hour  of 
prayer. 


HYMNS. 


With  cheerful  steps,  the  morrow's  dawn 
From  Shiraz  saw  the  stranger  part ; 

The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin-Born 
Still  blooming  in  his  hopeful  heart  ! 


HYMNS. 

FROM   THE   FRENCH   OF    LAMARTINE. 

ONE  hymn  more,  O  my  lyre  ! 
Praise  to  the  God  above, 
Of  joy  and  life  and  love, 

Sweeping  its  strings  of  fire  ! 

O,  who  the  speed  of  bird  and  wind 
And  sunbeam's  glance  will  lend  to 

me, 

That,  soaring  upward,  I  may  find 
My    resting-place      and     home     in 

Thee  ?  — 
Thou,  whom  my  soul,  midst  doubt  and 

gloom, 

Adoreth  with  a  fervent  flame,  — 
Mysterious  spirit  !  unto  whom 
Pertain  nor  sign  nor  name  ! 

Swiftly  my  lyre's  soft  murmurs  go, 

Up  from  the  cold  and  joyless  earth, 
Back  to  the  God  who  bade  them  flow, 

Whose  moving  spirit  sent  them  forth. 
But  as  for  me,  O  God  !  for  me, 

The  lowly  creature  of  thy  will, 
Lingering  and  sad,  I  sigh  to  thee, 

An  earth-bound  pilgrim  still ! 

Was  not  my  spirit  born  to  shine 

Where  yonderstarsand  suns  are  glow 
ing? 
To  breathe  with  them  the  light  divine 

From  God's  own  holy  altar  flowing  ? 
To  be,  indeed,  whate'er  the  soul 

In  dreams  hath  thirsted  for  so  long,  — 
A  portion  of  Heaven's  glorious  whole 

'Jf  loveliness  and  song? 

O,  watchers  of  the  stars  at  night, 

Who  breathe  their  fire,  aswetheair, — 
Suns,  thunders,  stars,  and  rays  of  light, 

O,  say,  is  He,  the  Eternal,  there? 
Bend  there  around  his  awful  throne 

The  seraph's  glance,  the  angel's  knee? 
Or  are  thy  inmost  depths  his  own, 

O  wild  and  mighty  sea  ? 


To  the  far  aim  of  your  desire  ! 
Thoughtafter  thought,  yethrongingrise, 

Like  spring-doves  from  the  startled 

wood, 
Bearing  like  them  your  sacrifice 

Of  music  unto  God  ! 

And  shall  these  thoughts  of  joy  and 
love 

Come  back  again  no  more  to  me  ?  — 
Returning  like  the  Patriarch's  dove 

Wing-weary  from  the  eternal  sea, 
To  bear  within  my  longing  arms 

The  promise-bough  of  kindlier  skies, 
Plucked  from  the  green,  immortal  palms 

Which  shadow  Paradise  ? 

All-moving  spirit !  — freely  forth 

At  thy  command  the  strong  wind  goes; 
Its  errand  to  the  passive  earth, 

Nor  art  can  stay,  nor  strength  oppose, 
Until  it  folds  its  weary  wing 

Once  more  within  the  hand  divine  ; 
So,  weary  from  its  wandering, 

My  spirit  turns  to  thine  ! 

Child  of  the  sea,  the  mountain  stream, 

From  its  dark  caverns,  hurries  on, 
Ceaseless,  by  night  and  morning's  beam, 

By  evening's  star  and  noontide's  sun, 
Until  at  last  it  sinks  to  rest, 

O'erwearied,  in  the  waiting  sea, 
And  moans  upon  its  mother's  breast,  — 

So  turns  my  soul  to  Thee  ! 

O  Thou  who  bid'st  the  torrent  flow, 

Who  lendest  wings  unto  the  wind,  — 
Mover  of  all  things  !  where  art  thou? 

O,  whither  shall  I  go  to  find 
The  secret  of  thy  resting-place  ? 

Is  there  no  holy  wing  for  me, 
That,  soaring,  I  may  search  the  space 

Of  highest  heaven  for  Thee  ? 

O,  would  I  were  as  free  to  rise 

As    leaves   on    autumn's  whirlwind 
borne,  — 

The  arrowy  light  of  sunset  skies, 
Or  sound,  or  ray,  or  star  of  morn, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Which  melts  in  heaven  at  twilight's 

close, 
Or  aught  which  soars  unchecked  and 

free 
Through  Earth   and   Heaven;  that  I 

might  lose 
Myself  in  finding  Thee  ! 


WHEN  the  BREATH  DIVINE  is  flowing, 
Zephyr-like  o'er  all  things  going, 
And,  as  the  touch  of  viewless  fingers, 
Softly  on  my  soul  it  lingers, 
Open  to  a  breath  the  lightest, 
Conscious  of  a  touch  the  slightest,  — 
As  some  calm,  still  lake,  whereon 
Sinks  the  snowy-bosomed  swan, 
And  the  glistening  water-rings 
Circle  round  her  moving  wings  : 
When  my  upward  gaze  is  turning 
Where  the  stars  of  heaven  are  burning 
Through  the  deep  and  dark  abyss,  — 
Flowers  of  midnight's  wilderness, 
Blowing  with  the  evening's  breath 
Sweetly  in  their  Maker's  path  : 

When  the  breaking  day  is  flushing 
All  the  east,  and  light  is  gushing 
Upward  through  the  horizon's  haze, 
Sheaf-like,  with  its  thousand  rays, 
Spreading,  until  all  above 
Overflows  with  joy  and  love, 
And  below,  on  earth's  green  bosom, 
All  is  changed  to  light  and  blossom  : 

When  my  waking  fancies  over 
Forms  of  brightness  flit  and  hover, 
Holy  as  the  seraphs  are, 
Who  by  Zion's  fountains  wear 
On  their  foreheads,  white  and  broad, 
"  HOLINESS  UNTO  THE  LORD  !  " 
When,  inspired  with  rapture  high, 
It  would  seem  a  single  sigh 
Could  a  world  of  love  create,  — 
That  my  life  could  know  no  date, 
And  my  eager  thoughts  could  fill 
Heaven  and  Earth,  o'erflowing  still !  — 

Then,  O  Father  !  thou  alone, 
From  the  shadow  of  thy  throne, 
To  the  sighing  of  my  breast 
And  its  rapture  answerest. 


All  my  thoughts,  which,  upward  wing 
ing. 

Bathe  where  thy  own  light  is  spring 
ing* — 

All  my  yearnings  to  be  free 

Are  as  echoes  answering  thee  ! 

Seldom  upon  lips  of  mine, 
Father  !  rests  that  name  of  thine,  — 
Deep  within  my  inmost  breast, 
In  the  secret  place  of  mind, 
Like  an  awful  presence  shrined, 
Doth  the  dread  idea  rest ! 
Hushed  and  holy  dwells  it  there,  — 
Prompter  of  the  silent  prayer, 
Lifting  up  my  spirit's  eye 
And  its  faint,  but  earnest  cry, 
From  its  dark  and  cold  abode, 
Unto  thee,  my  Guide  and  God  ! 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR. 

[MARY  G ,  aged  18,  a  "  SISTER  of 

CHARITY,"  died  in  one  of  our  Atlanttt 
cities,  during  the  prevalence  of  the  India* 
cholera,  while  in  voluntary  attendance  up» 
on  the  sick.] 

"BRING  out  your  dead  !  "    The  mid-1 

night  street 
Heard  and  gave  back  the  hoarse,  lo\* 

call ; 

Harsh  fell  the  tread  of  hasty  feet,  — 
Glanced  through  the  dark  the  coarse 

white  sheet,  — 
Her  coffin  and  her  pall. 
"  What — only  one  ! "  the  brutal  hack- 
man  said, 

As,  with  an  oath,  he  spurned  away 
the  dead. 

How  sunk  the  inmost  hearts  of  all, 
As  rolled  that  dead-cart  slowly  by, 

With  creaking  wheel  and  harsh  hoof- 
fall  ! 

The  dying  turned  him  to  the  wall, 
To  hear  it  and  to  die  !  — 

Onward  it  rolled;  while  oft  its  drive* 
stayed, 

And  hoarsely  clamored,  "  Ho  !  —bring 
out  your  dead." 


THE   FEATALE   MARTYR. 


It  paused  beside  the  burial-place  ; 
"  Toss  in  your  load  !  "  —  and  it  was 

done.  — 

With  quick  hand  and  averted  face, 
Hastily  to  the  grave's  embrace 

They  cast  them,  one  by  one,  — 
Stranger  and  friend,  —  the  evil  and  the 

just, 
Together  trodden  in  the  churchyard  dust! 

And  thou,  young  martyr  !  —  thou  wast 

there,  — 
No   white-robed   sisters   round  thee 

trod,  — 

Nor  holy  hymn,  nor  funeral  prayer 
Rose  through  the  damp  and  noisome 

air, 

Giving  thee  to  thy  God  ; 
Nor  flower,  nor  cross,  nor  hallowed  taper 

gave 
Grace  to  the  dead,  and  beauty  to  the 

grave  ! 

Yet,  gentle  sufferer  !  there  shall  be, 

In  every  heart  of  kindly  feeling, 
A  rite  as  holy  paid  to  thee 
As  if  beneath  the  convent-tree 

Thy  sisterhood  were  kneeling, 
At  vesper  hours,  like  sorrowing  angels, 

keeping 

Their  tearful  watch  around  thy  place  of 
sleeping. 

For  thou  wast  one  in  whom  the  light 
Of  Heaven's  own  love  was  kindled 
well. 

Enduring  with  a  martyr's  might, 

Through  weary  day  and  wakeful  night 
Far  more  than  words  may  tell  : 

Gentle,  and  meek,  and  lowly,  and  un 
known,  — 

Thy    mercies    measured   by   thy  God 
alone  ! 

Where   manly  hearts  were  failing, — 

where 

The  throngful  street  grew  foul  with 
death/ 

O    high-souled    martyr! — thou    wast 
there, 

Inhaling,  from  the  loathsome  air, 
Poison  with  every  breath. 

Vtt  shrinking  not  from  offices  of  dread 

For  the  wrung  dying,  and  the  uncon 
scious  dead. 


And,  where  the  sickly  taper  shed 

Its  light  through  vapors,  damp,  con 
fined, 

Hushed  as  a  seraph's  fell  thy  tread,  — 

A  new  Electra  by  the  bed 
Of  suffering  human-kind  ! 

Pointing  the  spirit,  in  its  dark  dismay, 

To  that  pure  hope  which  fadeth  not  away. 

Innocent  teacher  of  the  high 

And  holy  mysteries  of  Heaven  ! 
How  turned  to  thee  each  glazing  eye, 
In  mute  and  awful  sympathy, 

As  thy  low  prayers  were  given  ; 
And   the   o'er-hovering   Spoiler  wore, 

the  while, 

An    angel's  features,  —  a    deliverer's 
smile ! 

A  blessed  task  !  —  and  worthy  one 

Who,  turning  from  the  world,  as  thou, 
Before  life's  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave'its  spring-time  flower  and  sun, 

Had  sealed  her  early  vow  ; 
Giving  to  God  her  beauty  and  her  youth, 
Her  pure  affections  and  her  guileless 
truth. 

Earth  may  not  claim  thee.  Nothing  here 
Could  be  for  thee  a  meet  reward  ; 

Thine  is  a  treasure  far  more  dear,  — 

Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  the  ear 
Of  living  mortal  heard,  — 

The  joys  prepared, —  the  promised  bliss 
above,  — 

The  holy  presence  of  Eternal  Love  ! 

Sleep  on  in  peace.     The  earth  has  not 
A  nobler  name  than  thine  shall  be. 

The  deeds  by  martial  manhood  wrought, 

The  lofty  energies  of  thought, 
The  fire  of  poesy,  — 

These  have  but  frail  and  fading  hon 
ors  ;  —  thine 

Shall  Time  unto  Eternity  consign. 

Yea,  and  when  thrones  shall  crumble 

down, 

And  human  pride  and  grandeur  fall, — 
The  herald's  line  of  long  renown,  — 
The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown,  — 

Perishing  glories  all  ! 
The  pure  devotion  of  thy  generous  heart 
Shall  live  in  Heavenx  of  which  it  was  a 
part. 


*i6  MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE   FROST   SPIRIT. 

HE  comes,— he  comes,— the  Frost  Spirit  comes  !    You  may  trace  his  footsteps  now 
On  the  naked  woods  and  the  blasted  fields  and  the  brown  hill's  withered  brow. 
He  has  smitten  the  leaves  of  the  gray  old  trees  where  their  pleasant  green  came 

And  the  wind's,  which  follow  wherever  he  goes,  have  shaken  them  down  to  earth. 

He  comes,  —he  comes,—  the  Frost  Spirit  comes  !—  from  the  frozen  Labrador,  — 
From  the  icy  bridge  of  the  Northern  seas,  which  the  white  bear  wanders  o  er,  — 
Where  the  fisherman's  sail  is  stiff  with  ice,  and  the  luckless  forms  below 
In  the  sunless  cold  of  the  lingering  night  into  marble  statues  grow  ! 

He  comes,  — he  comes,  —  theFrost  Spirit  comes  !  — on  the  rushing  Northern  blast, 
And  the  dark  Norwegian  pines  have  bowed  as  his  fearful  breath  went  past. 
With  an  unscorched  wing  he  has  hurried  on,  where  the  fires  of  Hecla  glow 
On  the  darkly  beautiful  sky  above  and  the  ancient  ice  below. 

He  comes,  —he  comes,  —the  Frost  Spirit  comes  !  —  and  the  quiet  lake  shall  feel 
The  torpid  touch  of  his  glazing  breath,  and  ring  to  the  skater's  heel  ; 
And  the  streams  which  danced  on  the  broken  rocks,  or  sang  to  the  leaning  grass, 
Shall  bow  again  to  their  winter  chain,  and  in  mournful  silence  pass. 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes  !  — let  us  meet  him  as  we  may, 

And  turn  with  the  light  of  the  parlor-fire  his  evil  power  away  ; 

And  gather  closer  the  circle  round,  when  that  fire-light  dances  high, 

And  laugh  at  the  shriek  of  the  baffled  Fiend  as  his  sounding  wing  goes  by  ! 


THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER.^ 

"  O  LADY  fair,  these  silks  of  mine  are  beautiful  and  rare,  — 
The  richest  web  of  the  Indian  loom,  which  beauty's  queen  might  wear; 
And  my  pearls  are  pure  as  thy  own  fair  neck,  with  whose  radiant  light  they  vie; 
I  have  brought  them  with  me  a  weary  way,  —  will  my  gentle  lady  buy  ? " 

And  the  lady  smiled  on  the  worn  old  man  through  the  dark  and  clustering  curls 
Which  veiled  her  brow  as  she  bent  to  view  his  silks  and  glittering  pearls  ; 
And  she  placed  their  price  in  the  old  man's  hand,  and  lightly  turned  away, 
But  she  paused  at  the  wanderer's  earnest  call,  —  "My  gentle  lady,  stay  !  " 

"  O  lady  fair,  I  have  yet  a  gem  which  a  purer  lustre  flings, 
Than  the  diamond  flash  of  the  jewelled  crown  on  the  lofty  brow  of  kings,  — 
A  wonderful  pearl  of  exceeding  price,  whose  virtue  shall  not  decay, 
Whose  light  shall  be  as  a  spell  to  thee  and  a  blessing  on  thy  way  !  " 

The  lady  glanced  at  the  mirroring  steel  where  her  form  of  grace  was  seen, 
Where  her  eye  shone  clear,  and  her  dark  locks  waved  their  clasping  pearls  between; 
"  Bring  forth  thy  pearl  of  exceeding  worth,  thou  traveller  gray  and  old,  — 
And  name  the  price  of  thy  precious  gem,  and  my  page  shall  count  thy  gold." 

The  cloud  went  off  from  the  pilgrim's  brow,  as  a  small  and  meagre  book, 
Uuchased  with  gold  or  gem  of  cost,  from  his  folding  robe  he  took  I 


MY  SOUL  AND  I. 


"  Here,  lady  fair,  is  the  pearl  of  price,  may  it  prove  as  such  to  t'nee  I 
Nay  —  keep  thy  gold —  I  ask  it  not,  for  the  word  of  God  is  free  !  " 

The  hoary  traveller  went  his  way,  but  the  gift  he  left  behind 
Hath  had  its  pure  and  perfect  work  on  that  high-born  maiden's  mind, 
And  she  hath  turned  from  the  pride  of  sin  to  the  lowliness  of  truth, 
And  given  her  human  heart  to  God  in  its  beautiful  hour  of  youth  ! 

And  she  hath  left  the  gray  old  halls,  where  an  evil  faith  had  power, 

The  courtly  knights  of  her  father's  train,  and  the  maidens  of  her  bower; 

And  she  hath  gone  tc  the  Vaudois  vales  by  lordly  feet  untrod, 

Where  the  poor  and  needy  of  earth  are  rich  in  the  perfect  love  of  God  1 


THE    CALL    Or    THE    CHRIS 
TIAN. 

NOT  always  as  the  whirlwind's  rush 

On  Horeb's  mount  of  fear, 
Not  always  as  the  burning  bush  " 

To  Midian's  shepherd  seer, 
Nor  as  the  awful  voice  which  came 

To  Israel's  prophet  bards, 
Nor  as  the  tongues  of  cloven  flame, 

Nor  gift  of  fearful  words,  — 

Not  always  thus,  with  outward  sign 

Of  fire  or  voice  from  Heaven, 
The  message  of  a  truth  divine, 

The  call  of  God  is  given  ! 
Awaking  in  the  human  heart 

Love  for  the  true  and  right,  — 
Zeal  for  the  Christian's  better  part, 

Strength  for  the  Christian's  fight. 

Nor  unto  manhood's  heart  alone 

The  holy  influence  steals: 
Warm  with  a  rapture  not  its  own, 

The  heart  of  woman  feels, ! 
As  she  who  by  Samaria's  wall 

The  Saviour's  errand  sought, — 
As  those  who  with  the  fervent  Paul 

And  meek  Aquila  wrought : 

Or  those  meek  ones  whose  martyrdom 

Rome's  gathered  grandeur  saw  : 
Or  those  who  in  their  Alpine  home 

Braved  the  Crusader's  war, 
When   the  green   Vaudois,  trembling, 
heard, 

Through  all  its  vales  of  death, 
The  martyr's  song  of  triumph  poured 

From  woman's  failing  breath. 


And  gently,  by  a  thousand  things 

Which  o'er  our  spirits  pass, 
Like  breezes  o'er  the  harp's  fine  strings, 

Or  vapors  o'er  a  glass, 
Leaving  their  token  strange  and  new 

Of  music  or  of  shade, 
The  summons  to  the  right  and  true 

And  merciful  is  made. 

O,  then,  if  gleams  of  truth  and  light 

Flash  o'er  thy  waiting  mind, 
Unfolding  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  wants  of  human-kind  ; 
If,  brooding  over  human  grief, 

The  earnest  wish  is  known 
To  soothe  and  gladden  with  relief 

An  anguish  not  thine  own  ; 

Though  heralded  with  naught  of  fear, 

Or  outward  sign  or  show  ; 
Though  only  to  the  inward  ear 

It  whispers  soft  and  low  ; 
Though  dropping,  as  the  manna  fell, 

Unseen,  yet  from  above, 
Noiseless  as  dew-fall,  heed  it  well,  — 

Thy  Father's  call  of  love  ! 


MY  SOUL  AND  I. 

STAND  still,  my  soul,  in  the  silent  dark 

I  would  question  thee, 
Alone  in  the  shadow  drear  and  stark 

With  God  and  me  ! 

What,  my  soul,  was  thy  errand  here? 
Was  it  mirth  or  ease, 


MISCELLA  NEOUS. 


Or    heaping    up    dust    from    year    to 

year? 
"  Nay,  none  of  these  !  " 

Speak,  soul,  aright  in  His  holy  sight 

Whose  eye  looks  still 
And  steadily  on  thee  through  the  night : 

"  To  do  his  will  1 " 

What  hast  thou  done,  O  soul  of  mine, 
That  thou  tremblest  so  ?  — 

Hast  thou  wrought  his  task,  and  kept 

the  line 
He  bade  thee  go  ? 

What,  silent  all  !  —  art  sad  of  cheer  ? 

Art  fearful  now  ? 

When  God  seemed  far  and  men  were 
near, 

How  brave  wert  thou  ! 

Aha  !  thou  tremblest !  —  well  I  see 

Thou  'rt  craven  grown. 
Is  it  so  hard  with  God  and  me 

To  stand  alone  ?  — 

Summon  thy  sunshine  bravery  back, 

'  O  wretched  sprite  ! 
Let  me  hear  thy  voice  through  this  deep 

and  black 
Abysmal  night. 

What  hast  thou  wrought  for  Right  and 

Truth, 

For  God  and  Man, 
From  the  golden  hours  of  bright-eyed 

youth 
To  life's  mid  span  ? 

Ah,  soul  of  mine,  thy  tones  I  hear, 

But  weak  and  low, 
Like  far  sad  murmurs  on  my  ear 

They  come  and  go. 

"I    have    wrestled    stoutly    with    the 
Wrong, 

And  borne  the  Right 
From  beneath  the  footfall  of  the  throng 

.To  life  and  light. 

"  Wherever  Freedom  shivered  a  chain, 

God  speed,  quoth  I  ; 
To  Error  amidst  her  shouting  train 

I  gave  the  lie." 


Ah,  soul  of  mine  !  ah,  soul  of  mine  ! 

Thy  deeds  are  well  : 
Were  they  wrought  for  Truth's  sake  It 
for  thine  ? 

My  soul,  pray  tell. 

"  Of  all  the  work  my  hand  hath  wrought 

Beneath  the  sky, 
Save  a  place  in  kindly  human  thought, 

No  gain  have  I." 

Go  to,  go  to  !  —  for  thy  very  self 

Thy  deeds  were  done. : 
Thou  for  fame,  the  miser  for  pelf, 

Your  end  is  one  ! 

And  where  art  thou  going,  soul  of  mine  > 

Canst  see  the  end  ? 
And  whither  this  troubled  life  of  thina 

Evermore  doth  tend  ? 

What  daunts  thee  now  ?  —  what  shakos 
thee  so  ? 

My  sad  soul  say. 
"  I  see  a  cloud  like  a  curtain  low 

Hang  o'er  my  way. 

"  Whither  I  go  I  cannot  tell : 

That  cloud  hangs  black, 
High  as  the  heaven  and  deep  as  hell 

Across  my  track. 

"  I  see  its  shadow  coldly  enwrap 

The  souls  before. 
Sadly  they  enter  it,  step  by  step, 

To  return  no  more. 

"  They  shrink,  they  shudder,  dear  God! 

they  kneel 
To  thee  in  prayer. 
They  shut  their  eyes  on  the  cloud,  but 

feel 
That  it  still  is  there. 

"In vain  theyturn  from  the  dread  Before 
To  the  Known  and  Gone ; 

For  while  gazing  behind  them  evermore 
Their  feet  glide  on. 

"Yet,  at  times,  I  see  upon  sweet  pale 
faces 

A  light  begin 
To  tremble,  as  if  from  holy  places 

And  shrines  within. 


MY  SOUL   AND  I. 


119 


"  And  at  times  methinks  their  cold  lips 
move 

With  hymn  and  prayer, 
As  if  somewhat  of  awe,  but  more  of  love 

And  hope  were  there. 

"  I  call  on  the  souls  who  have  left  the 
light 

To  reveal  their  lot ;    , 
I  bend  mine  ear  to  that  wall  of  night, 

And  they  answer  not. 

"  But  I  hear  around  me  sighs  of  pain 

And  the  cry  of  fear, 
And  a  sound  like  the  slow  sad  drop- 

ng  of  rain, 
rop  a  tear ! 

"  Ah,   the  cloud  is  dark,  and  day  by 
day 

I  am  moving  thither  : 
I  must  pass  beneath  it  on  my  way  — 

God  pity  me  !  —  WHITHER  ?  " 

Ah,  soul  of  mine  !  so  brave  and  wise 

In  the  life-storm  loud, 
Fronting  so  calmly  all  human  eyes 

In  the  sunlit  crowd  ! 

Now  standing  apart  with  God  and  me 

Thou  art  weakness  all, 
Gazing  vainly  after  the  things  to  be 

Through  Death's  dread  wall. 

But  never  for  this,  never  for  this 

Was  thy  being  lent ; 
For  the  craven's  fear  is  but  selfishness, 

Like  his  merriment. 

Folly  and  Fear  are  sisters  twain  : 

One  closing  her  eyes, 
The  other  peopling  the  dark  inane 

With  spectral  lies. 

Know  well,  my  soul,  God's  hand  con 
trols 

Whate'er  thou  fearest ; 
Round  him  in  calmest  music  rolls 

Whate'er  thou  nearest. 

What  to  thee  is  shadow,  to  him  is  day, 
And  the  end  he  knoweth, 

And  not  on  a  blind  and  aimless  way 
The  spirit  goeth. 


Man  sees  no  future,  —  a  phantom  show 

Is  alone  before  him  : 
Past  Time  is  dead,  and  the  grasses  grow, 

And  flowers  bloom  o'er  him. 

Nothing  before,  nothing  behind  ; 

The  steps  of  Faith 
Fall  on  the  seeming  void,  and  find 

The  rock  beneath. 

The  Present,  the  Present  is  all  thou  hast 

For  thy  sure  possessing  ; 
Like  the  patriarch's  angel  hold  it  fast 

Till  it  gives  its  blessing. 

Why  fear  the  night  ?  why  shrink  from 

Death, 

That  phantom  wan  ? 
There  is  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth 

beneath 
Save  God  and  man. 

Peopling  the  shadows  we  turn  from  Him 

And  from  one  another ; 
All  is  spectral  and  vague  and  dim 

Save  God  and  our  brother  ! 

Like  warp  and  woof  all  destinies 

Are  woven  fast, 
Linked  in  sympathy  like  the  keys 

Of  an  organ  vast. 

Pluck  one  thread,  and  the  web  ye  mar; 

Break  but  one 
Of  a  thousand  keys,  and  the  paining  jar 

Through  all  will  run. 

O  restless  spirit !  wherefore  strain 

Beyond  thy  sphere? 
Heaven  and  hell,  with  their  joy  and 
pain, 

Are  now  and  here. 

Back  to  thyself  is  measured  well 

All  thou  hast  given  ; 
Thy  neighbor's  wrong  is  thy  present 
hell, 

His  bliss,  thy  heaven. 

And  in  life,  in  death,  in  dark  and  light, 

All  are  in  God's  care ; 
Sound    the    black    abyss,    pierce    the 
deep  of  night, 

And  he  is  there ! 


MI SC  ELL  A  NEOUS. 


All  which  is  real  now  remaineth, 

And  fadeth  never  : 

The  hand  which  upholds  it  now  sus- 
taineth 

The  soul  forever. 

Leaning  on  him,  make  with  reverent 

meekness 
His  own  thy  will, 
And  with  strength  from  Him  shall  thy 

utter  weakness 
Life's  task  fulfil ; 

And  that  cloud  itself,  which  now  before 

thee 

Lies  dark  in  view, 
Shall  with  beams  of  light  from  the  inner 

glory 
Be  stricken  through. 

Andlikemeadow  mist  through  autumn's 
dawn 

Uprolling  thin, 
Its  thickest  folds  when  about  thee  drawn 

Let  sunlight  in. 

Then  of  what  is  to  be,  and  of  what  is 
done, 

Why  queriest  thou  ?  — 
The  past  and  the  time  to  be  are  one, 

And  both  are  NOW  ! 


TO  A  FRIEND, 

ON  HER  RETURN  FROM  EUROPE. 

How  smiled  the  land  of  France 
Under  thy  blue  eye's  glance, 

Light-hearted  rover  ! 
Old  walls  of  chateaux  gray, 
Towers  of  an  early  day, 
Which  the  Three  Colors  play 

Flauntingly  over. 

Now  midst  the  brilliant  train 
Thronging  the  banks  of  Seine  : 

Now  midst  the  splendor 
Of  the  wild  Alpine  range, 
Waking  with  change  on  change 
Thoughts  in  thy  young  heart  strange, 

Lovely,  and  tender. 


Vales,  soft  Elysian, 
Like  those  in  the  vision 

Of  Mirza,  when,  dreaming, 
He  saw  the  long  hollow  dell, 
Touched  by  the  prophet's  spell, 
Into  an  ocean  swell 

With  its  isles  teeming. 

Cliffs  wrapped  in  snows  of  years, 
Splintering  with  icy  spears 

Autumn's  blue  heaven : 
Loose  rock  and  frozen  slide, 
Hung  on  the  mountain-side, 
Waiting  their  hour  to  glide 

Downward,  storm-driven  ! 

Rhine  stream,  by  castle  old, 
Baron's  and  robber's  hold, 

Peacefully  flowing ; 
Sweeping  through  vineyards  green. 
Or  where  the  cliffs  are  seen 
O'er  the  broad  wave  between 

Grim  shadows  throwing. 

Or,  where  St.  Peter's  dome 
Swells  o'er  eternal  Rome, 

Vast,  dim,  and  solemn, — 
Hymns  ever  chanting  low,  — 
Censers  swung  to  and  fro,  — 
Sable  stoles  sweeping  slow 

Cornice  and  column ! 

O,  as  from  each  and  all 
Will  there  not  voices  call 

Evermore  back  again  ? 
In  the  mind's  gallery 
Wilt  thou  not  always  see 
Dim  phantoms  beckon  thee 

O'er  that  old  track  again  ? 

New  forms  thy  presence  haunt,  — 
New  voices  softly  chant,  — 

New  faces  greet  thee  !  — 
Pilgrims  from  many  a  shrine 
Hallowed  by  poet's  line, 
At  memory's  magic  sign, 

Rising  to  meet  thee. 

And  when  such  visions  come 
Unto  thy  olden  home, 

Will  they  not  waken 
Deep  thoughts  of  Him  whose  hand 
Led  thee  o'er  sea  and  land 
Back  to  the  household  band 

Whence  thou  wast  taken  ? 


POLLEN. 


While,  at  the  sunset  time, 
Swells  the  cathedral's  chime, 

Yet,  in  thy  dreaming, 
While  to  thy  spirit's  eye_ 
Yet  the  vast  mountains  lie 
Piled  in  the  Switzer's  sky, 

Icy  and  gleaming: 

Prompter  of  silent  prayer, 
Be  the  wild  picture  there 

In  the  mind's  chamber, 
And,  through  each  coming  day 
Him  who,  as  staff  and  stay, 
Watched  o'er  thy  wandering  way, 

Freshly  remember. 

So,  when  the  call  shall  be 
Soon  or  late  unto  thee, 

As  to  all  given, 
Still  may  that  picture  live, 
All  its  fair  forms  survive, 
And  to  thy  spirit  give 

Gladness  in  Heaven  ! 


THE  ANGEL  OF  PATIENCE. 

A  FREE  PARAPHRASE  OF  THE  GERMAN. 

To  weary  hearts,  to  mourning  homes, 
God's  meekest  Angel  gently  comes : 
No  power  has  he  to  banish  pain, 
Or  give  us  back  our  lost  again  ; 
And  yet  in  tenderest  love,  our  dear 
And  Heavenly  Father  sends  him  here. 

There  's  quiet  in  that  Angel's  glance, 
There  's  rest  in  his  still  countenance  ! 
He  mocks  no  grief  with  idle  cheer, 
Nor  wounds  with  words  the  mourner's 
ear ;  ,     -t 

But  ills  and  woes  he  may  not  cure 
He  kindly  trains  us  to  endure. 

Angel  of  Patience  !  sent  to  calm 
Our  feverish  brows  with  cooling  palm  ; 
To  lay  the  storms  of  hope  and  fear, 
And  reconcile  life's  smile  and  tear  ; 
The  throbs  of  wounded  pride  to  still, 
And  make  our  own  our  Father's  will ! 

O  thou  who  mournest  on  thy  way, 
With  longings  for  the  close  of  day ; 


He  walks  with  thee,  that  Angel  kind, 
And  gently  whispers,  "  Be  resigned  : 
Bear  up,  bear  on,  the  end  shall  tell 
The    dear    Lord    ordereth   all    things 
well ! " 

F  O  L  L  E  N. 

ON   READING  HIS  ESSAY  ON  THE  "  FU 
TURE   STATE." 

FRIEND  of  my  soul !  —  as  with  moist 
eye 

I  look  up  from  this  page  of  thine, 
Is  it  a  dream  that  thou  art  nigh, 

Thy  mild  face  gazing  into  mine  ? 

That  presence  seems  before  me  now, 
A  placid  heaven  of  sweet  moonrise, 

When,  dew-like,  on  the  earth  below 
Descends  the  quiet  of  the  skies. 

The  calm  brow  through  the  parted 
hair, 

The  gentle  lips  which  knew7  no  guile, 
Softening  the  blue  eye's  thoughtful  care 

With  the  bland  beauty  of  their  smile. 

Ah  me  !  —  at  times  that  last  dread  scene 
Of  Frost  and  Fire  and  moaning  Sea, 

Will  cast  its  shade  of  doubt  between 
The  failing  eyes  of  Faith  and  thee. 

Yet,  lingering  o'er  thy  charmed  page, 
Where  through  the   twilight   air   of 
earth,  _ 

Alike  enthusiast  and  sage, 

Prophet  and  bard,  thou  gazest  forth ; 

Lifting  the  Future's  solemn  veil ; 

The  reaching  of  a  mortal  hand 
To  put  aside  the  cold  and  pale 

Cloud-curtains  of  the  Unseen  Land  ; 

In  thoughts  which  answer  to  my  own, 
In  words  which  reach  my  inward  ear, 

Like  whispers  from  the  void  Unknown, 
I  feel  thy  living  presence  here. 

The  waves  which  lull  thy  body's  rest, 
The  dust  thy  pilgrim  footsteps  trod, 

Unwasted,  through  each  change,  attest 
The  fixed  economy  of  God. 


MIS  CELL  A  NEOUS. 


Shall  these  poor  elements  outlive 
The   mind   whose   kingly  will  they 
wrought  ? 

Their  gross  unconsciousness  survive 
Thy  godlike  energy  of  thought  ? 

THOU  LIVEST,  FOLLEN  !  —  not  in  vain 
Hath  thy  fine  spirit  meekly  borne 

The  burthen  of  Life's  cross  of  pain, 
And  the  thorned  crown  of  suffering 
worn. 

O,  while  Life's  solemn  mystery  glooms 
Around  us  like  a  dungeon's  wall,  — 

Silent  earth's  pale  and  crowded  tombs, 
Silent  the  heaven  which  bends  o'er 
all!  — 

While  day  by  day  our  loved  ones  glide 
In  spectral  silence,  hushed  and  lone, 

To  the  cold  shadows  which  divide 
The  living  from  the  dread  Unknown ; 

While  even  on  the  closing  eye, 

And  on  the  lip  which  moves  in  vain, 

The  seals  of  that  stern  mystery 
Their  undiscovered  trust  retain  ;  — 

And  only  midst  the  gloom  of  death, 
Its   mournful   doubts   and   haunting 
fears, 

Two  pale,  sweet  angels,  Hope  and  Faith, 
Smile  dimly  on  us  through  their  tears ; 

'T  is  something  to  a  heart  like  mine 
To  think  of  thee  as  living  yet  ; 

To  feel  that  such  a  light  as  thine 
Could  not  in  utter  darkness  set. 

Less  dreary  seems  the  untried  way 
Since   thou   hast   left  thy  footprints 
there, 

And  beams  of  mournful  beauty  play 
Round  the  sad  Angel's  sable  hair. 

Oh  !  —  at  this  hour  when  half  the  sky 
Is  glorious  with  its  evening  light, 

And  Yair  broad  fields  of  summer  lie 
Hung  o'er  with  greenness  in  my  sight ; 

While  through   these  elm-boughs  wet 

with  rain 
The  sunset's  goldca  walls  are  seen, 


With  clover-bloom  and  yellow  grain 
And  wood-draped  hill   and    streai 
between  ; 

I  long  to  know  if  scenes  like  this 
Are  hidden  from  an  angel's  eyes  ; 

If  earth's  familiar  loveliness 

Haunts  not  thyheaven's  serenerskie: 

For  sweetly  here  upon  thee  grew 
The  lesson  which  that  beauty  gave, 

The  ideal  of  the  Pure  and  True 
In  earth  and  sky  and  gliding  wave. 

And  it  may  be  that  all  which  lends 
The  soul  an  upward  impulse  here, 

With  a  diviner  beauty  blends, 
And  greets  us  in  a  holier  sphere. 

Through  groves  where  blighting  neve 

fell 
The  humbler  flowers  of  earth  ma 

twine  ; 
And  simple  draughts  from  childhood1 

well 
Blend  with  the  angel-tasted  wine. 

But  be  the  prying  vision  veiled, 
And  let  the  seeking  lips  be  dumb,  — 

Where  even  seraph  eyes  have  failed 
Shall  mortal  blindness  seek  to  come 

We  only  know  that  thou  hast  gone, 
And  that  the  same  returnless  tide 

Which  bore  thee  from  us  still  glides  or 
And  we  who  mourn  thee  with  it  glide 

On  all  thou  lookest  we  shall  look, 
.  And  to  our  gaze  erelong  shall  turn 
That  page  of  God's  mysterious  book 
We  so  much  wish,  yet  dread  to  learr 

With  Him,  before  whose  awful  power 
Thy  spirit  bent  its  trembling  knee  ;  - 

Who,  in  the  silent  greeting  flower, 
And  forest  leaf,  looked  out  on  thee,  - 

We  leave  thee,  with  a  trust  serene, 
Which  Time,  nor  Change,  nor  Deatl 

can  move, 

While  with  thy  childlike  faith  we  lean, 
On    Him    whose    dearest    name    i 
Love ! 


THE   QUAKER   OF   THE   OLDEN  TIME. 


TO      THE      REFORMERS      OF 
ENGLAND. 

GOD  bless  ye,  brothers  !  —  in  the  fight 

Ye  're  waging  now,  ye  cannot  fail, 
For  better  is  your  sense  of  right 
Than  king-craft's  triple  mail. 

Than  tyrant's  law,  or  bigot's  ban, 
More  mighty  is  your  simplest  word; 

The  free  heart  of  an  honest  man 
Than  crosier  or  the  sword. 

Go,  —  let  your  bloated  Church  rehearse 
The  lesson  it  has  learned  so  well ; 

It  moves  not  with  its  prayer  or  curse 
The  gates  of  heaven  or  hell. 

Let  the  State  scaffold  rise  again,  — 
Did  Freedom  die  when  Russell  died? 

Forget  ye  how  the  blood  of  Vane 
From  earth's  green  bosom  cried  ? 

The  great  hearts  of  your  olden  time 
Are  beating  with  you,  full  and  strong 

All  holy  memories  and  sublime 
And  glorious  round  ye  throng. 

The  bluff,  bold  men  of  Runnymede 
Are  with  ye  still  in  times  like  these  ; 

The  shades  of  England's  mighty  dead, 
Your  cloud  of  witnesses  ! 

The  truths  ye  urge  are  borne  abroad 
By  every  wind  and  every  tide  ; 

The  voice  of  Nature  and  of  God 
Speaks  out  upon  your  side. 

The  weapons  which  your  hands  have 

found 
Are  those  which  Heaven  itself  has 

wrought, 

Light,  Truth,  and  Love  ;  —  your  battle 
ground 
The  free,  broad  field  of  Thought. 

No  partial,  selfish  purpose  breaks 
The  simple  beauty  of  your  plan, 

Nor  lie  from  throne  or  altar  shakes 
Your  steady  faith  in  man. 

The  languid  pulse  of  England  starts 
And  bounds  beneath  your  words  of 
power, 


The  beating  of  her  million  hearts 
Is  with  you  at  this  hour  ! 

O  ye  who,  with  undoubting  eyes, 
Through  present  cloud  and  gathering 
storm. 

Behold  the  span  of  Freedom's  skies, 
And  sunshine  soft  and  warm,  — 

Press  bravely  onward  !  — not  in  vain 
Your  generous  trust  in  human-kind  ; 

The  good  which  bloodshed  could  not 

gain 
Your  peaceful  zeal  shall  find. 

Press  on  !  —  the  triumph  shall  be  won 
Of  common  rights  and  equal  laws, 

The  glorious  dream  of  Harrington, 
And  Sidney's  good  old  cause. 

Blessing  the  cotter  and  the  crown, 
Sweetening  worn  Labor's  bitter  cup  ; 

And,  plucking  not  the  highest  down, 
Lifting  the  lowest  up. 

Press  on  !  —  and  we  who  may  not  share 
The  toil  or  glory  of  your  fight 

May  ask,  at  least,  in  earnest  prayer, 
God's  blessing  on  the  right ! 


THE  QUAKER  OF  THE  OLDEN 
TIME. 

THE  Quaker  of  the  olden  time  I  — 

How  calm  and  firm  and  true, 
Unspotted  by  its  wrong  and  crime, 

He  walked  the  dark  earth  through. 
The  lust  of  power,  the  love  of  gain, 

The  thousand  lures  of  sin 
Around  him,  had  no  power  to  stain 

The  purity  within. 

With  that  deep  insight  which  detects 

All  great  things  in  the  small, 
And  knows  how  each  man's  life  affects 

The  spiritual  life  of  all, 
He  walked  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

By  love  and  not  by  law  ; 
The  presence  of  the  wrong  or  right 

He  rather  felt  than  saw. 


124 


MI SC  ELL  A  NEOUS. 


He  felt  that  wrong  with  wrong  partakes, 

That  nothing  stands  alone, 
That  whoso  gives  the  motive,  makes 

His  brother's  sin  his  own. 
And,  pausing  not  for  doubtful  choice 

Of  evils  great  or  small, 
He  listened  to  that  inward  voice 

Which  called  away  from  all. 

O  Spirit  of  that  early  day, 

So  pure  and  strong  and  true, 
Be  with  us  in  the  narrow  way 

Our  faithful  fathers  knew. 
Give  strength  the  evil  to  forsake, 

The  cross  of  Truth  to  bear, 
And  love  and  reverent  fear  to  make 

Our  daily  lives  a  prayer  ! 


THE  REFORMER. 

ALL  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with  tan, 

I  saw  a  Strong  One,  in  his  wrath, 
Smiting  the  godless  shrines  of  man 
Along  his  path. 

The    Church,   beneath  her  trembling 

dome 

Essayed  in  vain  her  ghostly  charm : 
Wealth  shook  within  his  gilded  home 
With  strange  alarm. 

Fraud  from  his  secret  chambers  fled 

Before  the  sunlight  bursting  in  : 

Sloth  drew  her  pillow  o'er  her  head 

To  drown  the  din. 

"Spare,"  Art  implored,  "yon  holy  pile; 
That  grand,    old,    time-worn    turret 

spare  "  ; 

Meek  Reverence,  kneeling  in  the  aisle, 
Cried  out,  "  Forbear  !" 

Gray-bearded  Use,  who,  deaf  and  blind, 
Groped  for  his  old  accustomed  stone, 
Leaned  on  his  staff,  and  wept  to  find 
His  seat  o'erthrown. 

Young  Romance  raised  hisdreamyeyes, 

O'erhung  with  paly  locks  of  gold,  — 

"  Why  smite,"  he  asked  in  sad  surprise, 

"  The  fair,  the  old  ? " 


Yet  louder  rang  the  Strong  One's  stroke, 

Yet  nearer  flashed  his  axe's  gleam  ; 
Shuddering  and  sick  of  heart  I  woke, 
As  from  a  dream. 

I  looked  :  aside  the  dust-cloud  rolled,  — 
The  Waster  seemed  the  Builder  too  ; 
Up  springing  from  the  ruined  Old 
I  saw  the  New. 

'T  was  but  the  ruin  of  the  bad,  — 

The  wasting  of  the  wrong  and  ill  ; 
Whate'er  of  good  the  old  time  had 
Was  living  still. 

Calm  grew  the  brows  of  him  I  feared  ? 
The  frown  which  awed  me   passed 

away, 

And  left  behind  a  smile  which  cheered 
Like  breaking  day. 

The  grain  grew  green  on  battle-plains, 
O'er  swarded  war-mounds  grazed  the 

cow ; 

The  slave  stood  forging  from  his  chains 
The  spade  and  plough. 

Where  frowned  the  fort,  pavilions  gay 
And    cottage    windows,     flower-en 
twined, 

Looked  out  upon  the  peaceful  bay 
And  hills  behind. 

Through  vine-wreathed  cups  with  win* 

once  red, 

The  lights  on  brimming  crystal  fell, 
Drawn,  sparkling,  from  the  rivulet  hea^ 
And  mossy  well. 

Through  prison  walls,  like  Heaven-sent 

hope, 
Fresh   breezes  blew,  and  sunbeams 

strayed, 

And  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 
The  young  child  played. 

Where  the  doomed  victim  in  his  cell 
Had  counted  o'er  the  weary  hours, 
Glad  school-girls,  answering  to  *hr  b^lV 
Came  crowned  with  flowers. 

Grown  wiser  for  the  lesson  given, 

I  fear  no  longer,  for  I  know 
That,  where  the  share  is  deepest  driven. 
The  best  fruits  grow. 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT. 


The  outworn  rite,  the  old  abuse, 

The  pious  fraud  transparent  grown, 
The  good  held  captive  in  the  use 
Of  wrong  alone,  — 

These  wait  their  doom,  from  that  great 

law 

Which  makes  the  past  time  serve  to 
day  ; 

And  fresher  life  the  world  shall  draw 
From  their  decay. 

O,  backward-looking  son  of  time  ! 
The  new  is  old,  the  old  is  new, 
The  cycle  of  a  change  sublime 
Still  sweeping  through. 

5  o  wisely  taught  the  Indian  seer  ; 

Destroying  Seva,  forming  Brahm, 
*\  7ho  wake  by  turns  Earth's  love  and 

fear, 
Are  one,  the  same. 

Vdly  as  thou,  in  that  old  day 

Thou  mournest,  did  thy  sire  repine; 
So,  in  his  time,  thy  child  grown  gray 
Shall  sigh  for  thine. 

But  life  shall  on  and  upward  go  ; 

Th'  eternal  step  of  Progress  beats 

To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow, 

Which  God  repeats. 

Take     heart  !  —  the     Waster    builds 

again,  — 

A  charmed  life  old  Goodness  hath  ; 
The  tares  may  perish,  —  but  the  grain 
Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things  ;  all  obey 

His  first  propulsion  from  the  night : 
Wake  thou  and  watch  !  —  the  world  is 

gray 
With  morning  light  ! 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT. 

LOOK  on  him  !  —  through  his  dungeon 
grate 

Feebly  and  cold,  the  morning  light 
Comes  stealing  round  him,  dim  and  late, 

As  if  it  loathed  the  sight. 


Reclining  on  his  strawy  bed. 

His  hand  upholds  his  drooping  head,— 

His  bloodless  cheekis  seamedand  hard, 

Unshorn  his  gray,  neglected  beard  ; 

And  o'er  his  bony  fingers  flow 

His  long,  dishevelled  locks  of  snow. 

No  grateful  fire  before  him  glows, 
And  yet  the  winter's  breath  is  chill ; 

And  o'er  his  half-clad  person  goes 
The  frequent  ague  thrill  ! 

Silent,  save  ever  and  anon, 

A  sound,  half  murmur  and  half  groan, 

Forces  apart  the  painful  grip 

Of  the  old  sufferer's  bearded  lip  ; 

O  sad  and  crushing  is  the  fate 

Of  old  age  chained  and  desolate  ! 

Just  God  !  why  lies  that  old  man  there  ? 

A  murderer  shares  his  prison  bed, 
Whose   eyeballs,    through    his    horrid 
hair, 

Gleam  on  him,  fierce  and  red  ; 
And  the  rude  oath  and  heartless  jeer 
Fall  ever  on  his  loathing  ear, 
And,  or  in  wakefulness  or  sleep, 
Nerve,  flesh,  and  pulses  thrill  and  creep 
Whene'er  that  ruffian's  tossing  limb, 
Crimson  with  murder,  touches  him  ! 

What  has    the  gray  -  haired  prisoner 

done  ? 
Has  murder  stained  his  hands  with 

gore? 
Not  so  ;  his  crime 's  a  fouler  one  ; 

GOD  MADE  THE  OLD  MAN  POOR  ! 

For  this  he  shares  a  felon's  cell, — 
The  fittest  earthly  type  of  hell  ! 
For  this,  the  boon  for  which  he  poured 
His  young  blood  on  the  invader's  sword, 
And  counted  light  the  fearful  cost,  — 
His  blood-gained  liberty  is  lost ! 

And  so,  for  such  a  place  of  rest, 

Old  prisoner,  dropped  thy  blood  as 

rain 
On  Concord's  field,  and  Bunker's  crest, 

And  Saratoga's  plain  ? 
Look  forth,  thou  man  of  many  scars, 
Through  thy  dim  dungeon's  iron  bars ; 
It  must  be  joy,  in  sooth,  to  see 
Yon  monument  upreared  to  thee,  — 
Piled  granite  and  a  prison  cell,  — 
The  land  repays  thy  service  well  1 


126 


MIS  CELL  A  NE  0  US. 


Go,  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 
And  fling  the  starry  banner  out ; 
Shout   "  Freedom  !  "  till  your  lisping 

ones 

Give  back  their  cradle-shout ; 
Let  boastful  eloquence  declaim 
Of  honor,  liberty,  and  fame  ; 
Still  let  the  poet's  strain  be  heard, 
With  glory  for  each  second  word, 
And  everything  with  breath  agree 
To  praise  "  our  glorious  liberty  !  " 

But  when  the  patron  cannon  jars, 

That  prison's  cold  and  gloomy  wall, 
And  through  its  grates  the  stripes  and 

stars 

Rise  on  the  wind  and  fall,  — 
Think  ye  that  prisoner's  aged  ear 
Rejoices  in  the  general  cheer? 
Think  ye  his  dim  and  failing  eye 
Is  kindled  at  your  pageantry? 
Sorrowing  of  soul,  and  chained  of  limb, 
What  .is  your  carnival  to  him  ? 

Down  with  the   LAW  that  binds  him 
thus! 

Unworthy  freemen,  let  it  find 
No  refuge  from  the  withering  curse 

Of  God  and  human  kind  ! 
Open  the  prison's  living  tomb, 
And  usher  from  its  brooding  gloom 
The  victims  of  your  savage  code 
To  the  free  sun  and  air  of  God  ; 
No  longer  dare  as  crime  to  brand 
The  chastening  of  the  Almighty's  hand. 


LINES, 


WRITTEN  ON  READING  PAMPHLETS 
PUBLISHED  BY  CLERGYMEN  AGAINST 
THE  ABOLITION  OF  THE  GALLOWS. 


THE  suns  of  eighteen  centuries  have 

shone 
Since   the    Redeemer  walked    with 

man,  and  made 
The  fisher's  boat,  the  cavern's  floor  of 

stone, 

And  mountain  moss,  a  pillow  for  his 
head; 


And  He,  who  wandered  with  the  peas 
ant  Jew, 
And  broke  with  publicans  the  bread 

of  shame, 
And   drank,    with    blessings    in   his 

Father's  name. 
The  water  which    Samaria's    outcast 

drew, 
Hath    now    his    temples    upon    every 

shore, 
Altar  and   shrine   and  priest,  —  and 

incense  dim 
Evermore    rising,   with    low  prayer 

and  hymn, 
From  lips  which  press  the    temple's 

marble  floor, 

Or  kiss  the  gilded  sign  of  the  dread 
Cross  He  bore. 

ir. 

Yet  as  of  old,  when,    meekly   "  doing 

good," 

He  fed  a  blind  and  selfish  multitude, 
And  even  the  poor  companions  of  his 

lot 
With  their  dim  earthly  vision  knew  him 

not, 

How  ill  are  his  high  teachings  un 
derstood  ! 
Where   He   hath  spoken  Liberty,  the 

priest 
At   his   own   altar  binds  the   chain 

anew  ; 
Where  He  hath  bidden  to  Life's  equal 

feast, 
The  starving  many  wait  upon  the 

few; 
Where   He  hath    spoken   Peace,    his 

name  hath  been 
The    loudest    war-cry    of    contending 

men  ; 
Priests,   pale  with  vigils,  in  his  name 

have  blessed 
The  unsheathed  sword,  and  laid  the 

spear  in  rest, 
Wet  the  war-banner  with  their  sacred 

wine, 
And  crossed  its  blazon  with  the  holy 

sign  ; 
Yea,  in  his  name  who  bade  the  erring 

live, 
And  daily  taught  his  lesson,  —  to  for 

give  !  — 


Twisted  the  cord  and  edged  the  mur 
derous  steel  ; 

And,  with  his  words  of  mercy  on  their 
lips, 

Hung  gloating  o'er  the  pincer  s  burn 
ing  grips, 

And  the  grim  horror  of  the  straining 
wheel ; 

Fed  the  slow  flame  which  gnawed  the 
victim's  limb, 

Who  saw  before  his  searing    eyeballs 

swim 

The  image  of  their  Christ  in  cruel 
zeal, 

Through  the  black  torment-smoke,  held 
mockingly  to  him  ! 


The  blood  which  mingled  with  the  des 
ert  sand, 
And  beaded  with  its  red  and  ghastly 

dew 

The  vines  and  olivesof  the  Holy  Land,— 
The  shrieking  curses  of  the  hunted 

Jew,  — 
The    white-sown    bones    of  heretics, 

where'er 
They  sank  beneath  the  Crusade's  holy 

spear,  — 

Goa's  dark  dungeons,  —  Malta's  sea- 
washed  cell, 
Where  with  the  hymns  the  ghostly 

fathers  sung 
Mingled  the  groans  by  subtle  torture 

wrung, 
Heaven's  anthem  blending  with    the 

shriek  of  hell! 
The  midnight  of  Bartholomew, —the 

stake 

Of  Smithfield,   and    that    thrice-ac 
cursed  flame 
Which    Calvin    kindled  by    Geneva's 

lake,  — 

New  England's  scaffold,  and  the  priest 
ly  sneer 
Which  mocked  its  victims  in  that  hour 

of  fear, 
When  guilt  itself  a  human  tear  might 

claim,  — 
Bear  witness,   O    thou   wronged    and 

merciful  One  ! 

That  Earth's  most  hateful  crimes  have 
in  thy  na»ie  been  done  1 


Thank  God !  that  I  have  lived  to  see 

the  time 
When  the  great  truth  begins  at  last 

to  find 
An  utterance  from  the  deep  heart  of 

mankind, 
Earnest  and  clear,  that  ALL  REVENGE 

is  CRIME  ! 
That   man   is   holier  than  a  creed,  — 

that  all 
Restraint  upon  him  must  consult  his 

good, 
Hope's  sunshine  linger  on   his  prison 

wall, 

And  Love  look  in  upon  his  solitude. 
The  beautiful  lesson  which  our  Saviour 

taught 
Through  long,  dark  centuries  its  way 

hath  wrought 
Into  the   common  mind   and  popular 

thought ; 
And  words,  to  which  by  Galilee's  lake 

shore 
The  humble  fishers  listened  with  hushed 

oar, 
Have   found  an  echo  in   the  general 

heart, 
And  of  the  public  faith  become  a  living 

part. 


Who  shall  arrest  this  tendency  ?  —  Bring 

back 
The  cells  of  Venice   and  the   bigot's 

rack? 

Harden  the  softening  human  heart  again 
To  cold  indifference  to  a  brother's  pain? 
Ye  most  unhappy  men  !  —  who,  turned 

away 
From  the  mild  sunshine  of  the  Gospel 

day, 

Grope  in  the  shadows  of  Man's  twi 
light  time, 
What  mean  ye,   that  with  ghoul-like 

zest  ye  brood, 
O'er  those  foul  altars  streaming  with 

warm  blood, 

Permitted  in  another  aee  and  clime? 
Why  cite  that  law  with  which  the  bigot 

Jew 
Rebuked  the  Pagan's  mercy,  when  h« 

knew 


128 


MISCELLA  NEOUS. 


No  evil  in  the  Just  One  ?—  Wherefore 
turn 

To  the  dark  cruel  past  ?  —  Can  ye  not 
learn 

From  the  pure  Teacher's  life,  how  mild 
ly  free 

Is  the  great  Gospel  of  Humanity? 

The  Flamen's  knife  is  bloodless,  and 
no  more 

Mexitli's  altars  soak  with  human  gore, 

No  more  the  ghastly  sacrifices  smoke 

Through  the  green  arches  of  the  Dru 
id's  oak  ; 

And  ye  of  milder  faith,  with  your  high 
claim 

Of  prophet-utterance  in    the    Holiest 
name, 

Will  ye  become  the  Druids  of  our  time  ! 

Set  up  your  scaffold-altars  in  our  land, 

And,    consecrators    of   Law's   darkest 

crime, 

Urge  to  its  loathsome  work  the  hang 
man's  hand  ? 

Beware,  —  lest  human  nature,  roused 
at  last, 

From  its  peeled  shoulder  your  encum 
brance  cast, 

And,  sick  to  loathing  of  your  cry  for 
blood, 

Rank  ye  with  those  who  led  their  vic 
tims  round 

The  Celt's  red  altar  and  the  Indian's 

mound, 

Abhorred  of  Earth  and  Heaven,— a 
pagan  brotherhood ! 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE, 
i. 

FAR  from  his  close  and  noisome  cell, 

By  grassy  lane  and  sunny  stream, 
Blown  clover  field  and  strawberry  dell, 
And  green  and  meadow  freshness,  fell 

The  footsteps  of  his  dream. 
Again  from  careless  feet  the  dew 

Of  summer's  misty  morn  he  shook  ; 
Again  with  merry  heart  he  threw 

His  light  line  in  the  rippling  brook. 
Back  crowded  all  his  school-day  joys,  — 

He  urged  the  ball  and  quoit  again, 
And  heard  the  shout  of  laughing  boys 

Come  ringing  down  the  walnut  glen. 


Again  he  felt  the  western  breeze, 
With  scent  of  flowers  and  crisping 

hay; 
And  down  again  through  wind-stirred 

trees 

He  saw  the  quivering  sunlight  play. 
An  angel  in  home's  vine-hung  door, 
He  saw  his  sister  smile  once  more  ; 
Once  more  the  truant's  brown-locked 

head 

Upon  his  mother's  knees  was  laid, 
And  sweetly  lulled  to  slumber  there, 
With  evening's  holy  hymn  and  prayer  1 


He  woke.     At  once  on  heart  and  brain 
The  present  Terror  rushed  again,  — 
Clanked  on  his  limbs  the  felon's  chain  ! 
He  woke,  to  hear  the  church-tower  tell 
Time's  footfall  on  the  conscious  bell, 
And,  shuddering,  feel  that  clanging  din 
His  life's  LAST  HOUR  had  ushered  in ; 
To  see  within  his  prison-yard, 
Through  the  small  window,  iron  barred, 
The  gallows  shadow  rising  dim 
Between  the  sunrise  heaven  and  him,  — 
A  horror  in  God's  blessed  air,  — 

A  blackness  in  his  morning  light,  — 
Like  some  foul  devil-altar  there 

Built  up  by  demon  hands  at  night. 

And,  maddened  by  that  evil  sight, 
Dark,  horrible,  confused,  and  strange, 
A  chaos  of  wild,  weltering  change, 
All  power  of  check  and  guidance  gone, 
Dizzy  and  blind,  his  mind  swept  on. 
In  vain  he  strove  to  breathe  a  prayer, 

In  vain  he  turned  the  Holy  Book, 
He  only  heard  the  gallows-stair 

Creak  as  the  wind  its  timbers  shook. 
No  dream  for  him  of  sin  forgiven, 

While  still  that  baleful  spectre  stood, 

With  its  hoarse  murmur,  "  Blood  for 

Blood!" 
Between  him  and  the  pitying  Heaven  ! 


Low  on  his  dungeon  floor,  he  knelt, 
And   smote  his  breast,   and   on   his 
chain, 

Whose  iron  clasp  he  always  felt, 
His  hot  tears  fell  like  rain  ; 

And  near  him,  with  the  cold,  calm  look 
And  tone  of  one  whose  formal  part, 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE. 


129 


Unwarmed,  unsoftened  of  the  heart, 
Is  measured  out  by  rule  and  book, 
With  placid  lip  and  tranquil  blood, 
The  hangman's  ghostly  ally  stood, 
Blessing  with  solemn  text  and  word 
The  gallows-drop  and  strangling  cord  ; 
Lending  the  sacred  Gospel's  awe 
And  sanction  to  the  crime  of  Law. 


He  saw  the  victim's  tortured  brow,  — 

Thesweatof  anguish  starting  there, — 
The  record  of  a  nameless  woe 
In  the  dim  eye's  imploring  stare, 
Seen  hideous  through  the  long,  damp 

hair,  — 

Fingers  of  ghastly  skin  and  bone 
Working  and  writhing  on  the  stone  !  — 
And  heard,  by  mortal  terror  wrung 
From    heaving    breast    and    stiffened 

tongue, 
The   choking  sob    and    low  hoarse 

prayer  ; 

As  o'er  his  half-crazed  fancy  came 
A  vision  of  the  eternal  flame,  — 
Its  smoking  cloud  of  agonies,  — 
Its  demon-worm  that  never  dies, — 
The  everlasting  rise  and  fall 
Of  fire-waves  round  the  infernal  wall  ; 
While  high  above  that  dark  red  flood, 
Black,  giant-like,  the  gallows  stood  ; 
Two  busy  fiends  attending  there  : 
One  with  cold  mocking  rite  and  prayer, 
The  other  with  impatient  grasp, 
Tightening  the  death-rope's  strangling 
clasp. 


The  unfelt  rite  at  length  was  done,  — 
The  prayer  unheard  at   length  was 

said, — 
An    hour  had  passed  :  —  the  noonday 

sun 

Smote  on  the  features  of  the  dead  ! 
And   he   who   stood   the   doomed   be 
side, 

Calm  gauger  of  the  swelling  tide 
Of  mortal  agony  and  fear, 
Heeding  with  curious  eye  and  ear 
Whate'er  revealed  the  keen  excess 
Qf  man's  extremest  wretchednes* : 
And  who  in  that  dark  anguish  saw 
An  earnest  of  the  victim's  fate, 
9 


The  vengeful  terrors  of  God's  law, 

The  kindlings  of  Eternal  hate,  — 
The  first  drops  of  that  fiery  rain 
Which   beats  the   dark  red  realm   of 

pain, 
Did  he  uplift  his  earnest  cries 

Against    the   crime   of    Law,    which 
gave 

His  brother  to  that  fearful  grave, 
Whereon  Hope's  moonlight  never  lies, 

And    Faith's  white   blossoms  never 

wave 

To  the  soft  breath  of  Memory's  sighs ; — 
Which  sent  a  spirit  marred  and  stained, 
By  fiends  of  sin  possessed,  profaned, 
In  madness  and  in  blindness  stark, 
Into  the  silent,  unknown  dark? 
No,  —  from   the    wild    and    shrinking 

dread 
With  which  he  saw  the  victim  led 

Beneath  the  dark  veil  which  divides 
Ever  the  living  from  the  dead, 

And  Nature's  solemn  secret  hides, 
The  man  of  prayer  can  only  draw 
New  reasons  for  his  bloody  law ; 
New  faith  in  staying  Murder's  hand 
By  murder  at  that  Law's  command  ; 
New  reverence  for  the  gallows-rope, 
As  human  Nature's  latest  hope  ; 
Last  relic  of  the  good  old  time, 
When  Power  found  license  for  its  crime. 
And  held  a  writhing  world  in  check 
By  that  fell  cord  about  its  neck  ; 
Stifled  Sedition's  rising  shout, 
Choked  the  young  breath  of  Freedom 

out. 
And  timely  checked  the  words  which 

sprung 

From  Heresy's  forbidden  tongue  ; 
While  in  its  noose  of  terror  bound, 
The  Church  its  cherished  union  found, 
Conforming,  on  the  Moslem  plan, 
The  motley-colored  mind  of  man, 
Not  by  the  Koran  and  the  Sword, 
But  by  the  Bible  and  the  Cord  ! 


O,  Thou  !   at  whose  rebuke  the  grave 
Back  to  warm  life  its  sleeper  gave, 
Beneath  whose  sad  and  tearful  glance 
The  cold  and  changed  countenance 
Broke  the  still  horror  of  its  trance, 
And,  waking,  saw  with  joy  above, 


130 


MISCELLA  NEOUS. 


A  brother's  face  of  tenderest  love  ; 
Thou,  unto  whom  the  blind  and  lame, 
The  sorrowing  and  the  sin-sick  came, 
And  from  thy  very  garment's  hem 
Drew  life  and  healing  unto  them, 
The  burden  of  thy  holy  faith 
Was  love  and  life,  not  hate  and  death, 
Man's  demon  ministers  of  pain, 

The  fiends  of  his  revenge  were  sent 

From  thy  pure  Gospel's  element 
To  their  dark  home  again. 
Thy  name  is  Love !     What,  then,  is 
he, 

Who  in  that  name  the  gallows  rears, 
An  awful  altar  built  to  thee, 

With  sacrifice  of  blood  and  tears  ? 
O,  once  again  thy  healing  lay 

On  the  blind  eyes  which  knew  thee 

not 
And  let  the  light  of  thy  pure  day 

Melt  in  upon  his  darkened  thought. 
Soften  his  hard,  cold  heart,  and  show 

The    power    which    in    forbearance 

lies, 
And  let  him  feel  that  mercy  now 

Is  better  than  old  sacrifice  ! 


As  on  the  White  Sea's  charmed  shore, 

The  Parsee  sees  his  holy  hill 
With  dunnest  smoke-clouds  curtained 

o'er, 
Yet  knows  beneath  them,  evermore, 

The  low,  pale  fire  is  quivering  still ; 
So,  underneath  its  clouds  of  sin, 

The  heart  of  man  retaineth  yet 
Gleams  of  its  holy  origin  ; 

And  half-quenched  stars  that  never 

set, 
Dim  colors  of  its  faded  bow, 

And  early  beauty,  linger  there, 
And  o'er  its  wasted  desert  blow 

Faint  breathings  of  its  morning  air, 
O,  never  yet  upon  the  scroll 
Of  the  sin-stained,  but  priceless  soul, 

Hath  Heaven  inscribed  "DESPAIR  !" 
Cast  not  the  clouded  gem  away, 
Quench  not  the  dim  but  living  ray,  — 

My  brother  man,  Beware  ! 
With  that  deep  voice  which  from  the 

skies 
Forbade  the  Patriarch's  sacrifice, 

God's  angel  cries,  FORBEAR  ! 


RANDOLPH  OF   ROANOKE. 

O  MOTHER  EARTH  !  upon  thy  lap 

Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 
Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 

Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning  ; 
Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 

Of  all  save  deeds  ot  kindness, 
And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 

Saw  autumn's  sunset  glowing, 
He  sleeps,  —  still  looking  to  the  west, 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune  !— in  himself 

All  moods  of  mind  contrasting,  — 
The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 

The  scorn-like  lightning  blasting  ; 
The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 

Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 
The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 

Of  hatred  scarcely  human  ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond  shower, 

From  lips  of  life-long  sadness  ; 
Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 

Upon  a  ground  of  madness  ; 
And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 

A  classic  beauty  throwing, 
And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 

Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  feared  him  :  each  in  turn 
Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 

As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 
,  And  spectral  finger  pointed. 

Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 
With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 

And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 
The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 


DEMOCRACY. 


Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 
While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion,  _ 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion  ! 

Still  through  each  change   of  fortune 
strange, 

Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 
His  loving  faith  in  Mother-land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning  ; 
By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  wave, 

Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him, 
He  heard  her  rivers'  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 

No  false  and  vain  pretences, 
Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  Scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 
Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves  :  yet  kept  the  while 

His  reverence  for  the  Human  ; 
In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman  ! 
No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 

His  Roanoke  valley  entered  ; 
No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 

Across  his  threshold  ventured. 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Lay  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother-man  stood  weeping, 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom's  duty  giving, 
With  failing  tongue  and  trembling  hand 

The  dying  blest  the  living. 

O,  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver  ! 
None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 
He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stooped 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 


But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 

The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 
None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of  Doom 

Along  her  future  treacling. 
For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 

When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 
He  traced  with  dying  hand  "REMORSE  !" 

And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 

From  Vernon's  weeping  willow. 
And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 

The  Sage  of  Monticello, 
So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 

Of  Randolph's  lowly  dwelling, 
Virginia  !  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 

A  warning  voice  is  swelling  ! 

And  hark  !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From  ciuenched  hearths,  where  thy  ex 
iled  sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee,  —  wolves  for  men, 

And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving  ! 
O,  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 

Were  now  one  hero  living  ! 


DEMOCRACY. 

All  thinprs  whatsoever  ye  would  that 
men  should  do  to  you,  do  ye  even  so  to 
them.—  Matthew  \ii.  12. 

BEARER  of  Freedom's  holy  light, 
Breaker  of  Slavery's  chain  and  rod, 

The  foe  of  all  which  pains  the  sight, 
Or  wounds  the  generous  ear  of  God ! 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 
Though    there    profaning    gifts    are 
thrown  ; 

And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 
Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still    sacred,  —  though    thy  name    be 

breathed 

By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  de 
ride  ; 
And  garlands,  plucked  from  thee,  are 

wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 


132 


MIS  CELL  A  NE  0  US. 


O,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time  ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stained  thy  peaceful  courts  with 
blood  ! 

Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 
For  through  the  mists  which  darken 
there, 

I  see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn,  — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer  ! 

The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 
Which  owns  the  rights  of  all  divine, — 

The  pitying  heart, — the  helping  arm, — 
The  prompt  self-sacrifice,  —  are  thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 
How  fade  the  lines  of  caste  and  birth  ! 

How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth ! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true, 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him  ; 

As  stooped  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 
The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepelled,  unawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thou  seest  a  MAN 

In  prince  or  peasant,  —  slave  or  lord, — 
Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 

Through  all  disguise,  form,  place,   or 
name, 

Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin, 
Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 

Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe'erdebased,  and  soiled,  and  dim, 

The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set,  — 
The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look  ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veiled  his  perfect  brightness 
there. 

Not  from  the  shallow  babbling  fount 
Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art ; 

He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 
Thrilled,  warmed,  by  turns,  the  lis 
tener's  heart, 


In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 

In  thoughts  which  angels  leaned  to 
know, 

Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high, — • 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe. 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died  ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain-side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 
I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 

And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 
Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 
At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring; 

But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 
A  freeman's  dearest  offering : 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will,  — 
His  pledge  to  Freedom  and  toTrutk, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 

Election  Day,  1843. 


TO  RONGE. 

STRIKE  home,  strong-hearted  man! 
Down  to  the  root 

Of  old  oppression  sink  the  Saxon  steel. 

Thy  work  is  to  hew  down.  In  God's 
name  then 

Put  nerve  into  thy  task.  Let  other 
men 

Plant,  as  they  may,  that  better  tree 
whose  fruit 

The  wounded  bosom  of  the  Church 
shall  heal. 

Be  thou  the  image-breaker.  Let  thy 
blows 

Fall  heavy  as  the  Suabian's  iron  hand, 

On  crown  or  crosier,  which  shall  inter 
pose 

Between  thee  and  the  weal  of  Father 
land. 

Leave  creeds  to  closet  idlers.  First  of 
all, 

Shake  thou  all  German  dream-land  with 
the  fall 


CHALKLEY  HALL. 


Of  that  accursed  tree,  whose  evil  trunk 
Was  spared  of  old  Dy  Erfurt's  stalwart 

monk. 
Fight  not  with   ghosts   and   shadows. 

Let  us  hear 

The  snap  of  chain-links.    Let  our  glad 
dened  ear 
Catch  the  pale  prisoner's  welcome,  as 

the  light 
Follows   thy   axe-stroke,   through   his 

cell  of  night. 
Be  faithful  to  both  worlds;  nor  think 

to  feed 
Earth's  starving  millions  with  the  husks 

of  creed. 
Servant   of  Him  whose   mission   high 

and  holy 
Was  to  the  wronged,  the  sorrowing,  and 

the  lowly, 
Thrust  not  his  Eden  promise  from  our 

sphere, 
Distant  and  dim  beyond  the  blue  sky's 

span  ; 
Like  him  of  Patmos,  see  it,  now  and 

here,  — 
The   New  Jerusalem  comes  down  to 

man  ! 
Be  warned  by   Luther's    error.     Nor 

like  him, 
When  the  roused  Teuton  dashes  from 

his  limb 

The  rusted  chain  of  ages,  help  to  bind 
His  hands  for  whom  thou  claim'st  the 

freedom  of  the  mind  ! 


CHALKLEY    HALL.39 

How  bland  and  sweet  the  greeting  of 

this  breeze 
To  him  who  flies 
From   crowded   street   and   red  wall's 

weary  gleam, 

Till  far  behind  him  like  a  hideous  dream 
The  close  dark  city  lies  ! 

Here,  while  the  market  murmurs,  while 

men  throng 
The  marble  floor 
Of  Mammon's  altar,  from  the  crush  and 

din 

Of  the  world's  madness  let  me  gather  in 
My  better  thoughts  once  more. 


O,  once  again  revive,  while  on  my  ear 

The  cry  of  Gain 

And  low  hoarse  hum  of  Traffic  die  away, 
Ye  blessed  memories  of  my  early  day 

Like  sere  grass  wet  with  rain  !  — 

Once  more  let  God's  green  earth  and 

sunset  air 

Old  feelings  waken ; 
Through  weary  years  of  toil  and  strife 

and  ill, 

O,  let  me  feel  that  my  good  angel  still 
Hath  not  his  trust  forsaken. 

And  well  do  time  and  place  befit  my 

mood : 

Beneath  the  arms 
Of  this  embracing  wood,  a  good  man 

made 
His  home,  like  Abraham  resting  in  the 

shade 
Of  Mamre's  lonely  palms. 

Here,  rich  with  autumn  gifts  of  count 
less  years, 
The  virgin  soil 
Turned  from  the  share  he  guided,  and 

in  rain 
And  summer  sunshine  throve  the  fruits 

and  grain 
Which  blessed  his  honest  toil. 

Here,  from  his  voyages  on  the  stormy 

seas, 

Weary  and  worn, 
He  came  to  meet  his  children  and  to 

bless 

The  Giver  of  all  good  in  thankfulness 
And  praise  for  his  return. 

And  here  his  neighbors  gathered  in  to 

greet 

Their  friend  again, 
Safe  from  the  wave  and  the  destroying 

gales, 
Which  reap  untimely  green  Bermuda's 

vales, 
And  vex  the  Carib  main. 

Tohearthe  goodmantellof simple  truth, 

Sown  in  an  hour 

Of  weakness  in  some  far-off  Indian  isle, 
Fromthe  parchedbosom  of  abarrensoil, 

Raised  up  in  life  and  power ; 


134 


MIS  CELL  A  NEOUS. 


How  at  those  gatherings  in  Barbadian 

vales, 

A  tendering  love 
Came  o'er  him,  like  the  gentle  rain  from 

heaven, 
And  words  of  fitness  to  his  lips  were 

given, 
And  strength  as  from  above  : 

How  the  sad  captive  listened   to   the 

Word, 

Until  his  chain 
Grew  lighter,  and  his  wounded  spirit 

felt 

The  healing  balm  of  consolation  melt 
Upon  its  life-long  pain  : 

How  the  armed  warrior  sat  him  down 

to  hear 

Of  Peace  and  Truth, 
And  the    proud  ruler  and  his  Creole 

dame, 
Jewelled   and  gorgeous  in  her  beauty 

came, 
And  fair  and  bright-eyed  youth. 

O,  far  away  beneath  New  England'ssky, 

Even  when  a  boy, 
Following  my  plough  by  Merrimack's 

green  shore, 
His  simple  record  I  have  pondered  o'er 

With  deep  and  quiet  joy. 

And  hence  this  scene,  in  sunset  glory 

warm,  — 
Its  woods  around, 
Its  still  stream  winding  on  in  light  and 

shade, 
Its  soft,  green  meadows  and  its  upland 

glade,  — 
To  me  is  holy  ground. 

And    dearer    far    than    haunts  where 

Genius  keeps 
His  vigils  still  ; 
Than  that  where  Avon's  son  of  song  is 

laid, 
Or  Vaucluse  hallowed  by  its  Petrarch's 

shade, 
Or  Virgil's  laurelled  hill. 

To  the  gray  walls  of  fallen  Paraclete, 

^  To  Juliet's  urn, 
Fair  Arno  and  Sorrento's  orange-grove, 


Where  Tasso  sang,  let  young  Romance 

and  Love 
Like  brother  pilgrims  turn. 

But  here  a  deeper  and  serener  charm 

To  all  is  given  ; 
And  blessed  memories  of  the  faithful 

dead 
O'er  wood  and  vale  and  meadow-stream 

have  shed 
The  holy  hues  of  Heaven  ! 


TO  J.   P. 

NOT  as  a  poor  requital  of  the  joy 
With  which  my  childhood  heard  thax 

lay  of  thine, 

Which,  like  an  echo  of  the  song  divine 
At  Bethlehem  breathed  above  the  Holy 

Boy, 

Bore  to  my  ear  the  Airs  of  Palestine, — 
Not  to  the  poet,  but  the  man  I  bring 
Infriendship'sfearlesstrust  my  offering : 
How  much  it  lacks  I  feel,  and  thou  wilt 

see, 
Yet  well  I  know  that  thou  hast  deemed 

with  me 
Life  all   too  earnest,  and  its  time  too 

short 
For  dreamy  ease,  and  Fancy's  graceful 

sport ; 
And  girded  for  thy  constant  strife  with 

wrong, 
Like    Nehemiah     fighting    while    he 

wrought 
The  broken  walls  of  Zion,  even  thy 

song 
Hath  a  rude   martial  tone,  a  blow   in 

every  thought ! 


THE    CYPRESS -TREE    OF 
CEYLON. 

[TRxBATTTTA,  the  celebrated  Mussulman 
traveller  of  the  fourteenth  century,  speaks 
of  a  cypress-tree  in  Ceylon,  universally 
held  sacred  hv  the  natives,  the  leaves  of 
which  were  said  to  fall  only  at  certain  inter 
vals,  and  he  who  had  the  nappiness  to  find 
and  eat  one  of  them,  was  restored,  at  once,  to 


A    DREAM  OF  SUMMER. 


135 


youth  and  vigor.  The  traveller  saw  several 
venerable  JOGEES,  or  saints,  sitting  silent 
and  motionless  under  the  tree,  patiently 
awaiting  the  falling  of  a  leaf.] 

THEY  sat  in  silent  watchfulness 
The  sacred  cypress-tree  about, 

And,  from  beneath  old  wrinkled  brows 
Their  failing  eyes  looked  out. 

Gray  Age  and  Sickness  waiting  there 
Through  weary  night  and  lingering 
day,  — 

Grim  as  the  idols  at  their  side, 
And  motionless  as  they. 

Unheeded  in  the  boughs  above 

The  song  of  Ceylon's  birds  was  sweet ; 

Unseen  of  them  the  island  flowers 
Bloomed  brightly  at  their  feet. 

O'er  them  the  tropic  night-storm  swept, 
The  thunder  era  shed  on  rock  and  hill ; 

The  cloud-fire  on  their  eyeballs  blazed, 
Yet  there  they  waited  still ! 

What  was  the  world  without  to  them  ? 

The  Moslem's  sunset-call, — thedance 
Of  Ceylon's  maids,  — the  passing  gleam 

Of  battle-flag  and  lance  ? 

They  waited  for  that  falling  leaf 

Of  which  the  wandering  J ogees  sing : 

Which  lends  once  more  to  wintry  age 
The  greenness  of  its  spring. 

O,  if  these  poor  and  blinded  ones 
In  trustful  patience  wait  to  feel 

O'er  torpid  pulse  and  failing  limb 
A  youthful  freshness  steal  ; 

Shall  we,  who  sit  beneath  that  Tree 
Whose  healing  leaves  of  life  are  shed, 

In  answer  to  the  breath  of  prayer, 
Upon  the  waiting  head  ; 

Not  to  restore  our  failing  forms, 

And  build  the  spirit's  broken  shrine, 

But,  on  the  fainting  SOUL  to  shed 
A  light  and  life  divine  ; 

Shall  we  grow  weary  in  our  watch, 
And  murmur  at  the  long  delay? 

Impatient  of  our  Father's  time 
And  his  appointed  way  ? 


Or  shall  the  stir  of  outward  things 
Allure  and  claim  the  Christian's  eye, 

When  on  the  heathen  watcher's  ear 
Their  powerless  murmurs  die  ? 

Alas  !  a  deeper  test  of  faith 

Than  prison  cell  or  martyr's  stake, 

The  self- abasing  watchfulness 
Of  silent  prayer  may  make. 

We  gird  us  bravely  to  rebuke 

Our  erring  brother  in  the  wrong,  — 

And  in  the  ear  of  Pride  and  Power 
Our  warning  voice  is  strong. 

Easier  to  smite  with  Peter's  sword 
Than  "watch   one   hour"  in   hum 
bling  prayer. 
Life's  "great  things,"  like  the  Syrian 

lord, 
Our  hearts  can  do  and  dare. 

But  oh  !  we  shrink  from  Jordan's  side, 
From  waters  which  alone  can  save  ; 

And  murmur  for  Abana's  banks 
And  Pharpar's  brighter  wave. 

O  Thou,  who  in  the  garden's  shade 
Didst  wake  thy  weary  ones  again, 

Who  slumbered  at  that  fearful  hour 
Forgetful  of  thy  pain  ; 

Bend  o'er  vis  now,  as  over  them, 
And  set  our  sleep-bound  spirits  free, 

Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  watch 
Our  souls  should  keep  with  Thee  ! 


A  DREAM  OF  SUMMER. 

BLAND  as  the  morning  breath  of  June 

The  southwest  breezes  play  ; 
And,  through  its  haze,  the  winter  noon 

Seems  warm  as  summer's  day. 
The  snow-plumed  Angel  of  the  North 

Has  dropped  his  icy  spear  ; 
Again  the  mossy  earth  looks  forth, 

Again  the  streams  gush  clear. 

The  fox  his  hillside  cell  forsakes, 
The  muskrat  leaves  his  nook, 

The  bluebird  in  the  meadow  brakes 
Is  singing  with  the  brook. 


136 


M1SCELLA  NEOUS. 


"  Bear  up,  O  Mother  Nature  !  "  cry 
Bird,  breeze,  and  streamlet  free  ; 

"  Our  winter  voices  prophesy 
Of  summer  days  to  thee  !  " 

So,  in  those  winters  of  the  soul, 

By  bitter  blasts  and  drear 
O'erswept  from  Memory's  frozen  pole, 

Will  sunny  days  appear. 
Reviving  Hope  and  Faith,  they  show 

The  soul  its  living  powers, 
And  how  beneath  the  winter's  snow 

Lie  germs  of  summer  flowers  ! 

The  Night  is  mother  of  the  Day, 

The  Winter  of  the  Spring, 
And  ever  upon  old  Decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 
Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks, 

Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall ; 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  his  works, 

Has  left  his  Hope  with  all  1 

qth  \st  month,  1847. 


TO 


WITH  A  COPY  OF  WOOLMAN  S  JOURNAL. 

"  Get  the  writings  of  John  Woolman  by 
heart."  —  Essays  of  EKa. 

MAIDEN  !  with  the  fair  brown  tresses 
Shading  o'er  thy  dreamy  eye, 

Floating  on  thy  thoughtful  forehead 
Cloud  wreaths  of  its  sky. 

Youthful  years  and  maiden  beauty, 
Joy  with  them  should  still  abide,  — 

Instinct  take  the  place  of  Duty, 
Love,  not  Reason,  guide. 

Ever  in  the  New  rejoicing, 

Kindly  beckoning  back  the  Old, 

Turning,  with  the  gift  of  Midas, 
All  things  into  gold. 

And  the  passing  shades  of  sadness 
Wearing  even  a  welcome  guise, 

As,  when  some  bright  lake  lies  open 
To  the  sunny  skies, 

Every  wing  of  bird  above  it, 
Every  light  cloud  floating  on, 


Glitters  like  that  flashing  mirror 
In  the  selfsame  sun. 

But  upon  thy  youthful  forehead 
Something  like  a  shadow  lies  ; 

And  a  serious  soul  is  looking 
From  thy  earnest  eyes. 

With  an  early  introversion, 

Through  the  forms  of  outward  thing! 
Seeking  for  the  subtle  essence, 

And  the  hidden  springs. 

Deeper  than  the  gilded  surface 
Hath  thy  wakeful  vision  seen, 

Farther  than  the  narrow  present 
Have  thy  journeyings  been. 

Thou  hast  midst  Life's  empty  noises 
Heard  the  solemn  steps  of  Time, 

And  the  low  mysterious  voices 
Of  another  clime. 

All  the  mystery  of  Being 

Hath  upon  thy  spirit  pressed,  — 
Thoughts  which,  like  the  Deluge  wan 
derer, 

Find  no  place  of  rest : 

That  which  mystic  Plato  pondered, 
That  which  Zeno  heard  with  awe, 

And  the  star-rapt  Zoroaster 
In  his  night-watch  saw. 

From  the  doubt  and  darkness  spring 
ing 

Of  the  dim,  uncertain  Past, 
Moving  to  the  dark  still  shadows 

O'er  the  Future  cast, 

Early  hath  Life's  mighty  question 
Thrilled  within  thy  heart  of  youth, 

With  a  deep  and  strong  beseeching  : 
WHAT  and  WHERE  is  TRUTH  ? 

Hollow  creed  and  ceremonial, 

Whence  the  ancient  life  hath  fled, 

Idle  faith  unknown  to  action, 
Dull  and  cold  and  dead. 

Oracles,  whose  wire-worked  meanings 
Only  wake  a  quiet  scorn,  — 

Not  from  these  thy  seeking  spirit 
Hath  its  answer  drawn, 


TO- 


i37 


But,  like  some  tired  child  at  even, 
On  thy  mother  Nature's  breast, 

Thou,  methinks,  art  vainly  seeking 
Truth,  and  peace,  and  rest. 

O'er  that  mother's  rugged  features 
Thou  art  throwing  Fancy's  veil, 

Light  and  soft  as  woven  moonbeams, 
Beautiful  and  frail ! 

O'er  the  rough  chart  of  Existence, 
Rocks  of  sin  and  wastes  of  woe, 

Soft  airs  breathe,   and    green    leaves 

tremble, 
And  cool  fountains  flow. 

And  to  thee  an  answer  cometh 
From  the  earth  and  from  the  sky, 

And  to  thee  the  hills  and  waters 
And  the  stars  reply. 

But  a  soul-sufficing  answer 

Hath  no  outward  origin  ; 
More  than  Nature's  many  voices 

May  be  heard  within. 

Even  as  the  great  Augustine 

Questioned  earth  and  sea  and  sky,40 

And  the  dusty  tomes  of  learning 
And  old  poesy. 

But  his  earnest  spirit  needed 

More  than  outward  Nature  taught,  — 
More  than  blest  the  poet's  vision 

Or  the  sage's  thought. 

Only  in  the  gathered  silence 
Of  a  calm  and  waiting  frame 

Light  and  wisdom  as  from  Heaven 
To  the  seeker  came. 

Not  to  ease  and  aimless  quiet 
Doth  that  inward  answer  tend, 

But  to  works  of  love  and  duty 
As  our  being's  end,  — 

Not  to  idle  dreams  and  trances, 
Length  of  face,  and  solemn  tone, 

But  to  Faith,  in  daily  striving 
And  performance  shown. 

Earnest  toil  and  strong  endeavor 

Of  a  spirit  which  within 
Wrestles  with  familiar  evil 

And  besetting  sin  ; 


And  without,  with  tireless  vigor, 
Steady  heart,  and  weapon  strong, 

In  the  power  of  truth  assailing 
Every  form  of  wrong. 

Guided  thus,  how  passing  lovely 
Is  the  track  of  WOOLMAN'S  feet ! 

And  his  brief  and  simple  record 
How  serenely  sweet ! 

O'er  life's  humblest  duties  throwing 
Light  the  earthling  never  knew, 

Freshening  all  its  dark  waste  places 
As  with  Hermon's  dew. 

All  which  glows  in  Pascal's  pages,  — 
All  which  sainted  Guion  sought, 

Or  the  blue-eyed  German  Rahel 
Half-unconscious  taught :  — 

Beauty,  such  as  Goethe  pictured, 
Such  as  Shelley  dreamed  of,  shed 

Living  warmth  and  starry  brightness 
Round  that  poor  man's  head. 

Not  a  vain  and  cold  ideal, 

Not  a  poet's  dream  alone, 
But  a  presence  warm  and  real, 

Seen  and  felt  and  known. 

When  the  red  right-hand  of  slaughter 
Moulders  with  the  steel  it  swung, 

When  the  name  of  seer  and  poet 
Dies  on  Memory's  tongue, 

All  bright  thoughts  and  pure  shallgather 
Round  that  meek  andsufferingone, — 

Glorious,  like  the  seer-seen  angel 
Standing  in  the  sun  ! 

Take  the  good  man's  book  and  ponder 
What  its  pages  say  to  thee,  — 

Blessed  as  the  hand  of  healing 
May  its  lesson  be. 

If  it  only  serves  to  strengthen 
Yearnings  for  a  higher  good, 

For  the  fount  of  living  waters 
And  diviner  food  ; 

If  the  pride  of  human  reason 
Feels  its  meek  and  still  rebuke, 

Quailing  like  the  eye  of  Peter 
From  the  Just  One's  look  !  — 


J38 


MI  SC  ELL  A  NEOUS. 


If  with  readier  ear  thou  heedest 
What  the  Inward  Teacher  saith, 

Listening  with  a  willing  spirit 
And  a  childlike  faith,  — 

Thou  mayst  live  to  bless  the  giver, 
Who,  himself  but  frail  and  weak, 

Would  at  least  the  highest  welfare 
Of  another  seek ; 

And  his  gift,  though  poor  and  lowly 
It  may  seem  to  other  eyes, 

Yet  may  prove  an  angel  holy 
In  a  pilgrim's  guise. 


LEGGETT'S  MONUMENT. 

"  Ye  build  the  tombs  of  the  prophets." 

Holy  Writ. 

YES, —  pile  the  marble  o'er  him!     It 

is  well 

That  ye  who  mocked  him  in  his  long 
stern  strife, 


And  planted  in  the  pathway  of  his 

life 
The  ploughshares  of  your  hatred  hot 

from  hell, 

Who   clamored   down  the  bold  re 
former  when 

He  pleaded  for  his  captive  fellow- 
men, 
Who  spurned  him  in  the  market-place, 

and  sought 
Within  thy  walls,  St.  Tammany,  to 

bind 
In  party  chains  the   free  and  honest 

thought, 
The   angel  utterance  of  an  upright 

mind,    - 
Well  is  it  now  that  o'er  his  grave  ye 

raise 
The     stony    tribute     of    your    tardy 

praise, 
For  not  alone  that  pile  shall  tell  to 

Fame 

Of  the  brave  heart  beneath,  but  of  the 
builders'  shame  1 


SONGS    OF    LABOR, 


OTHER    POEMS. 


1850. 


SONGS   OF    LABOR. 


DEDICATION. 

• 

I  WOULD  the  gift  I  offer  here 

Might  graces  from  thy  favor  take, 
And,  seen  through  Friendship's  at 
mosphere, 

On  softened  lines  and  coloring,  wear 
The  unaccustomed  light  of  beauty,  for 
thy  sake. 

Few  leaves  of  Fancy's  spring  remain  : 

But  what  I  have  I  give  to  thee,  — 

The  o'er-sunned  bloom  of  summer  s 

plain, 

And  paler  flowers,  the  latter  ram 
Calls  from  the  westering  slope  of  life  s 
autumnal  lea. 

Above  the  fallen  groves  of  green, 
Where   youth's    enchanted  forest 

stood, 

Dry  root  and  mossed  trunk  between, 
A  sober  after-growth  is  seen, 
As  springs  the  pine  where  falls  the  gay- 
leafed  maple  wood  ! 

Yet  birds  will  sing,  and  breezes  play 
Their  leaf-harps    in   the    sombre 

tree  ; 
And  through  the   bleak  and  wintry 

day 

It  keeps  its  steady  green  alway,  — 
So,  even  my  after-thoughts  may  have 
a  charm  for  thee. 

Art's  perfect  forms  no  moral  need. 
And  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  ; 41 
But  for  the  dull  and  flpwerless  weed 
Some  healing  virtue  still  must  plead, 
And  the  rough  ore  must  find  Us  honors 
in  its  use. 


So  haply  these,  my  simple  lays 

Of  homely  toil,  may  serve  to  show 
The   orchard    bloom    and  tasselled 

That  skirt  and  gladden  duty's  ways, 
The  unsung  beauty  hid  life's  common 
things  below. 

Haply  from  them  the  toiler,  bent 
Above   his  forge   or  plough,  may 

gain 

A  manlier  spirit  of  content, 
And  feel  that  life  is  wisest  spent 
Where  the  strong  working  hand  makes 
strong  the  working  brain. 

The  doom  which  to  the  guilty  pair 
Without  the  walls  of  Eden  came, 
Transforming  sinless  ease  to  care 
And  rugged  toil,  no  more  shall  bear 
The   burden  of  old  crime,  or  mark  of 
primal  shame. 

A  blessing  now,  —a  curse  no  more  ; 
Since  He,  whose  name  we  breathe 

with  awe, 

The  coarse  mechanic  vesture  wore,  — 
A  poor  man  toiling  with  the  poor, 
In   labor,  as  in  prayer,   fulfilling  the 
same  law. 


THE  SHIP-BUILDERS. 

THE  sky  is  ruddy  in  the  east, 

The  earth  is  gray  below, 
And,  spectral  in  the  river-mist, 

The  skip's  white  timbers  show. 
Then  let  the  sounds  of  measured  stroke 

And  grating  saw  begin  ; 


I42 


SCWGS  OF  LABOR. 


The  broad-axe  to  the  gnarled  oak, 
The  mallet  to  the  pin  ! 

Hark  !  —  roars  the  bellows,   blast  on 
blast, 

The  sooty  smithy  jars, 
And  fire-sparks,  rising  far  and  fast, 

Are  fading  with  the  stars. 
All  day  for  us  the  smith  shall  stand 

Beside  that  flashing  forge  ; 
All  day  for  us  his  heavy  hand 

The  groaning  anvil  scourge. 

From  far-off  hills,  the  panting  team 

For  us  is  toiling  near  ; 
For  us  the  raftsmen  down  the  stream 

Their  island  barges  steer. 
Rings  out  for  us  the  axe-man's  stroke 

In  forests  old  and  still,  — 
For  us  the  century-circled  oak 

Fails  crashing  down  his  hill. 

Up  !  —  up  !  —  in  nobler  toil  than  ours 

No  craftsmen  bear  a  part : 
We  make  of  Nature's  giant  powers 

The  slaves  of  human  Art. 
Lay  rib  to  rib  and  beam  to  beam, 

And  drive  the  treenails  free  ; 
Nor  faithless  joint  nor  yawning  seam 

Shall  tempt  the  searching  sea  ! 

Where'er  the  keel  of  our  good  ship 

The  sea's  rough  field  shall  plough, — 
Where'er  her  tossing  spars  shall  drip 

With  salt-spray  caught  below,  — 
That  ship  must  heed  her  master's  beck, 

Her  helm  obey  his  hand, 
And  seamen  tread  her  reeling  deck 

As  if  they  trod  the  land. 

Her  oaken  ribs  the  vulture-beak 

Of  Northern  ice  may  peel  ; 
The  sunken  rock  and  coral  peak 

May  grate  along  her  keel ; 
And  know  we  well  the  painted  shell 

We  give  to  wind  and  wave, 
Must  float,  the  sailor's  citadel, 

Or  sink,  the  sailor's  grave  ! 

Ho !  —  strike  away  the  bars  and  blocks, 
And_set  the  good  ship  free  !    ' 

Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 
The  young  bride  of  the  sea? 


Look  !    how    she    moves  adown   the 
grooves, 

In  graceful  beauty  now  ! 
How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 

Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow  ! 

God  bless  her  !  wheresoe'er  the  breeze 

Her  snowy  wing  shall  fan, 
Aside  the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  Hindostan  ! 
Where'er,  in  mart  or  on  the  main, 

With  peaceful  flag  unfurled, 
She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chain 

Of  commerce  round  the  world  ! 

Speed  on  tn"e  ship !  —  But  let  her  bear 

No  merchandise  of  sin, 
No  groaning  cargo  of  despair 

Her  roomy  hold  within ; 
No  Lethean  drug  for  Eastern  lands, 

Nor  poison-draught  for  ours ; 
But  honest  fruits  of  toiling  hands 

And  Nature's  sun  and  showers. 

Be  hers  the  Prairie's  golden  grain, 

The  Desert's  golden  sand, 
The  clustered  fruits  of  sunny  Spain, 

The  spice  of  Morning-land  ! 
Her  pathway  on  the  open  main 

May  blessings  follow  free, 
And  glad  hearts  welcome  back  again 

Her  white  sails  from  the  sea  ! 


THE  SHOEMAKERS. 

Ho  !  workers  of  the  old  time  styled 

The  Gentle  Craft  of  Leather  ! 
Young  brothers  of  the  ancient  guild, 

Stand  forth  once  more  together  ! 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  olden  merry  manner  ! 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  your  blazoned  banner  ! 

Rap,  rap  !  upon  the  well-worn  stone 

How  falls  the  polished  hammer  ! 
Rap,   rap  !    the   measured   sound   has 
grown 

A  quick  and  merry  clamor. 
Now  shape  the  sole  !  now  deftly  curl 

The  glossy  vamp  around  it, 
And  bless  the  while  the  bright-eyed  girl 

Whose  gentle  fingers  bound  it ! 


THE  DROVERS. 


For  you,  along  the  Spanish  main 

A  hundred  keels  are  ploughing  ; 
For  you,  the  Indian  on  the  plain 

His  lasso-coil  is  throwing  ; 
For  you,  deep  glens  with  hemlock  dark 

The  woodman's  fire  is  lighting  ; 
For  you,  upon  the  oak's  gray  bark, 

The  woodman's  axe  is  smiting. 

For  you,  from  Carolina's  pine 

The  rosin-gum  is  stealing  ;     m 
For  you,  the  dark-eyed  Florentine 

Her  silken  skein  is  reeling  ; 
For  you,  the  dizzy  goatherd  roams 

His  rugged  Alpine  ledges  ; 
For  you,  round  all  her  shepherd  homes, 

Bloom  England's  thorny  hedges. 

The  foremost  still,  by  day  or  night, 

On  moated  mound  or  heather, 
Where'er  the  need  of  trampled  right 

Brought  toiling  men  together  ; 
Where  the  free  burghers  from  the  wall 

Defied  the  mail-clad  master, 
Than  yours,  at  Freedom's  trumpet-call, 

No  craftsmen  rallied  faster. 

Let  foplings  sneer,  let  fools  deride,  — 

Ye  heed  no  idle  scorner  ; 
Tree  hands  and  hearts  are  still  your 
pride, 

And  duty  done,  your  honor. 
Ye  dare  to  trust,  for  honest  fame, 

The  jury  Time  empanels, 
And  leave  to  truth  each  noble  name 

Which  glorifies  your  annals. 

Thy  songs,  Han  Sachs,  are  living  yet, 

In  strong  and  hearty  German  ; 
And  Bloomfield's  lay,  and  Gifford's  wit, 

And  patriot  fame  of  Sherman  ; 
Still  from  his  book,  a  mystic  seer, 

The  soul  of  Behmen  teaches, 
And   England's  priestcraft  shakes    to 
hear 

Of  Fox's  leathern  breeches. 

The  foot  is  yours  ;  where'er  it  falls, 

It  treads  your  well- wrought  leather, 
On  earthen  floor,  in  marble  halls, 

On  carpet,  or  on  heather. 
Still  there  the  sweetest  charm  is  found 

Of  matron  grace  or  vestal's, 
As  Hebe's  foot  bore  nectar  round 

Among  the  old  celestials ! 


Rap,  rap  !  —  your  stout  and  bluff  bro- 
gan, 

With  footsteps  slow  and  weary, 
May  wander  where  the  sky's  blue  span 

Shuts  down  upon  the  prairie. 
On  Beauty's  foot,  your  slippers  glance, 

By  Saratoga's  fountains, 
Or  twinkle  down  the  summer  dance 

Beneath  the  Crystal  Mountains  ! 

The  red  brick  to  the  mason's  hand, 

The  brown  earth  to  the  tiller's, 
The  shoe  in  yours  shall  wealth   com 
mand, 

Like  fairy  Cinderella's  ! 
As  they  who  shunned  the   household 
maid 

Beheld  the  crown  upon  her, 
So  all  shall  see  your  toil  repaid 

With  hearth  and  home  and  honor. 

Then  let  the  toast  be  freely  quaffed, 

In  water  cool  and  brimming,  — 
"  All  honor  to  the  good  old  Craft, 

Its  merry  men  and  women  !  " 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  old  time's  pleasant  manner  : 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  his  blazoned  banner  ! 


THE  DROVERS. 

THROUGH  heat  and  cold,  and  shower 
and  sun, 

Still  onward  cheerly  driving  ! 
There  's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 
But  see  !  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us  ; 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  foot-sore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
The  landlord  beckons  from  his  door, 

His  beechen  fire  is  glowing  ; 
These  ample  barns,  with  feed  in  store, 

Are  filled  to  overflowing. 


144 


SOtfGS  OF  LA  BOR. 


From  many  a  valley  frowned  across 

By  brows  of  rugged  mountains  ; 
From  hillsides  where,  through  spongy 
moss, 

Gush  out  the  river  fountains  ; 
From  quiet  farm-fields,  green  and  low, 

And  bright  with  blooming  clover  ; 
From  vales  of  corn  the  wandering  crow 

No  richer  hovers  over; 

Day  after  day  our  way  has  been, 

O'er  many  a  hill  and  hollow  ; 
By  lake  and  stream,  by  wood  and  glen, 

Our  stately  drove  we  follow. 
Through  dust-clouds  rising  thick  and 
dun, 

As  smoke  of  battle  o'er  us, 
Their  white  horns  glisten  in  the  sun, 

Like  plumes  and  crests  before  us. 

We  see  them  slowly  climb  the  hill, 

As  slow  behind  it  sinking  ; 
Or,  thronging  close,  from  roadside  rill, 

Or  sunny  lakelet,  drinking. 
Now  crowding  in  the  narrow  road, 

In  thick  and  struggling  masses, 
They  glare  upon  the  teamster's  load, 

Or  rattling  coach  that  passes. 

Anon,  with  toss  of  horn  and  tail, 

And  paw  of  hoof,  and  bellow, 
They  leap  some  farmer's  broken  pale, 

O'er  meadow-close  or  fallow. 
Forth   comes  the    startled    goodman ; 
forth 

Wife,  children,  house-dog,  sally, 
Till  once  more  on  their  dusty  path 

The  baffled  truants  rally. 

We  drive  no  starvelings,  scraggy  grown, 

Loose-legged,  and  ribbed  and  bony, 
Like  those  who  grind  their  noses  down 

On  pastures  bare  and  stony,  — 
Lank  oxen,  rough  as  Indian  dogs, 

And  cows  too  lean  for  shadows, 
Disputing  feebly  with  the  frogs 

The  crop  of  saw -grass  meadows  ! 

In  our  good  drove,  so  sleek  and  fair, 
No  bones  of  leanness  rattle  ; 

No   tottering   hide-bound    ghosts    are 

there, 
Or  Pharaoh's  evil  cattle. 


Each  stately  beeve  bespeaks  the  hand 

That  fed  him  unrepining  ; 
The  fatness  of  a  goodly  land 

In  each  dun  hide  is  shining. 

We've  sought  them  where,  in  warmest 
nooks, 

The  freshest  feed  is  growing, 
By  sweetest  springs  and  clearest  brooks 

Through  honeysuckle  flowing  ; 
Wherever  hillsides,  sloping  south, 

Are  bright  with  early  grasses, 
Or,  tracking  green  the  lowland's  drouth. 

The  mountain  streamlet  passes. 

But  now  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us, 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 
The  cricket  to  the  frog's  bassoon 

His  shrillest  time  is  keeping  ; 
The  sickle  of  yon  setting  moon 

The  meadow-mist  is  reaping. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  footsore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery.          \ 
To-morrow,  eastward  with  our  charge 

We  '11  go  to  meet  the  dawning. 
Ere  yet  the  pines  of  Kearsarge 

Have  seen  the  sun  of  morning. 

When  snow-flakes  o'er  the  frozen  earth, 

Instead  of  birds,  are  flitting  ; 
When    children    throng    the    glowing 
hearth, 

And  quiet  wives  are  knitting  ; 
While  in  the  fire-light  strong  and  clear 

Young  eyes  of  pleasure  glisten, 
To  tales  of  all  we  see  and  hear 

The  ears  of  home  shall  listen. 

By  many  a  Northern  lake  and  hill, 

From  many  a  mountain  pasture, 
Shall  Fancy  play  the  Drover  still, 

And  speed  the  long  night  faster. 
Then  let  us  on,  through  shower  and 
sun, 

And  heat  and  cold,  be  driving; 
There  's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 


THE  HUSKERS. 


THE   FISHERMEN. 

HURRAH  !  the  seaward  breezes 

Sweep  down  the  bay  amain  ; 
Heave  up,  my  lads,  the  anchor  ! 

Run  up  the  sail  again  ! 
Leave  to  the  lubber  landsmen 

The  rail-car  and  the  steed  ; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed. 

From  the  hill-top  looks  the  steeple, 

And  the  lighthouse  from  the  sand ; 
And  the  scattered  pines  are  waving 

Their  farewell  from  the  land. 
One  glance,  my  lads,  behind  us, 

For  the  homes  we  leave  one  sigh, 
Ere  we  take  the  change  and  chances 

Of  the  ocean  and  the  sky. 

Now,  brothers,  for  the  icebergs 

Of  frozen  Labrador, 
Floating  spectral  in  the  moonshine, 

Along  the  low,  black  shore  ! 
Where  like  snow  the  gannet's  feathers 

On  Brador's  rocks  are  shed, 
And  the  noisy  murr  are  flying, 

Like  black  scuds,  overhead  ; 

Where  in  mist  the  rock  is  hiding, 

And  the  sharp  reef  lurks  below, 
And  the  white  squall  smites  in  summer, 

And  the  autumn  tempests  blow  ; 
Where,  through  gray  and  rolling  vapor, 

From  evening  unto  morn, 
A  thousand  boats  are  hailing, 

Horn  answering  unto  horn. 

Hurrah  !  for  the  Red  Island, 

With  the  white  cross  on  its  crown  ! 
Hurrah!  for  Meccatina, 

And  its  mountains  bare  and  brown  ! 
Where  the  Caribou's  tall  antlers 

O'er  the  dwarf-wood  freely  toss, 
And  the  footstep  of  the  Mickmack 

Has  no  sound  upon  the  moss. 


There  we  '11  drop  our  lines,  and  gather 

Old  Ocean's  treasures  in, 
Where'er  the  mottled  mackerel 

Turns  up  a  steel-dark  fin. 
The  sea 's  our  field  of  harvest, 

Its  scaly  tribes  our  grain  ; 
We  '11  reap  the  teeming  waters 

As  at  home  they  reap  the  plain  ! 

Our  wet  hands  spread  the  carpet, 

And  light  the  hearth  of  home  ; 
From  our  fish,  as  in  the  old  time, 

The  silver  coin  shall  come. 
As  the  demon  fled  the  chamber 

Where  the  fish  of  Tobit  lay, 
So  ours  from  all  our  dwellings 

Shall  frighten  W^ant  away. 

Though  the  mist  upon  our  jackets 

In  the  bitter  air  congeals, 
And  our  lines  wind  stiff  and  slowly 

From  off  the  frozen  reels  ; 
Though  the  fog  be  dark  around  us, 

And  the  storm  blow  high  and  loud, 
We  will  whistle  down  the  wild  wind, 

And  laugh  beneath  the  cloud  ! 

In  the  darkness  as  in  daylight, 

On  the  water  as  on  land, 
God's  eye  is  looking  on  us, 

And  beneath  us  is  his  hand  ! 
Death  will  find  us  soon  or  later, 

On  the  deck  or  in  the  cot ; 
And  we  cannot  meet  him  better 

Than  in  working  out  our  lot. 

Hurrah  !  — hurrah  !  — the  west-wind 

Comes  freshening  down  the  bay, 
The  rising  sails  are  filling,  — 

Give  way,  my  lads,  give  way  ! 
Leave  the  coward  landsman  clinging 

To  the  dull  earth,  like  a  weed,  — 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed ! 


THE   HUSKERS. 


IT  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  autumnal  rain 
Had  left  the  summer  harvest-fields  all  green  with  grass  again  ; 
The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving  all  the  woodlands  gay 
With  the  hues  of  summer's  rainbow,  or  the  meadow-flowers  of  May. 


i46  SONGS  OF  LABOR. 

Through  a  thin,  clry  mist,  that  morning,  the  sun  rose  broad  and  red, 
At  first  a  rayless  disk  of  fire,  he  brightened  as  he  sped  ; 
Yet,  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chastened  and  subdued, 
On  the  cornfields  and  the  orchards,  and  softly  pictured  wood. 

And  all  that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping  to  the  night, 
He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze  with  yellow  light  ; 
Slanting  through  the  painted  beeches,  he  glorified  the  hill  ; 
And,  beneath  it,  pond  and  meadow  lay  brighter,  greener  still. 

And  shouting  boys  in  woodland  haunts  caught  glimpses  of  that  sky, 
Flecked  by  the  many-tinted  leaves,  and  laughed,  they  knew  not  why  ; 
And  school-girls,  gay  with  aster-flowers,  beside  the  meadow  brooks, 
Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with  the  sunshine  of  sweet  looks. 

From  spire  and  barn,  looked  westerly  the  patient  weathercocks ; 
But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  motionless  as  rocks. 
No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save  the  squirrel's  dropping  shell, 
And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs,  low  rustling  as  they  fell. 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested  ;  the  stubble-fields  lay  dry, 
Where  June  winds  rolled,  in  light  and  shade,  the  pale  green  waves  of  rye 
But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys  fringed  with  wood, 
Ungathered,  bleaching  in  the  sun,  the  heavy  corn  crop  stood. 

Bent  low,  by  autumn's  wind  and  rain,  through  husks  that,  dry  and  sere, 
Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone  out  the  yellow  ear; 
Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many  a  verdant  fold. 
And  glistened  in  the  slanting  light  the  pumpkin's  sphere  of  gold. 

There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters  ;  and  many  a  creaking  wain 
Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn-floor  its  load  of  husk  and  grain  ; 
Till  broad  and  red,  as  when  he  rose,  the  sun  sank  down,  at  last, 
And  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell,  the  day  in  brightness  passed. 

And  lo  !  as  through  the  western  pines,  on  meadow,  stream,  and  pond, 
Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky,  set  all  afire  beyond, 
Slowly  o'er  the  eastern  sea-bluffs  a  milder  glory  shone, 
And  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise  were  mingled  into  one  ! 

As  thus  into  the  quiet  night  the  twilight  lapsed  away, 
And  deeper  in  the  brightening  moon  the  tranquil  shadows  lay  ; 
From  many  a  brown  old  farm-house,  and  hamlet  without  name, 
Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks  done,  the  merry  huskers  came. 

Swung  o'er  the  heaped-up  harvest,  from  pitchforks  in  the  mow, 

Shone  dimly  down  the  lanterns  on  the  pleasant  scene  below; 

The  growing  pile  of  husks  behind,  the  golden  ears  before, 

And  laughing  eyes  and  busy  hands  and  brown  cheeks  glimmering  o'er. 

Half  hidden  in  a  quiet  nook,  serene  of  look  and  heart, 

Talking  their  old  times  over,  the  old  men  sat  apart ; 

While,  up  ;'nd  clown  the  unhusked  pile,  or  nestling  in  its  shade, 

At  hide-and-seek,  with  laugh  and  shout,  the  happy  children  played. 


THE   LUMBERMEN: 

Urged  by  the  good  host's  daughter,  a  maiden  young  and  fair, 
Lifting  to  light  her  sweet  blue  eyes  and  pride  of  soft  brown  hair, 
The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of  hair  and  smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm,  a  husking-ballad  sung. 


THE  CORN-SONG. 

HEAP  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard  ! 

Heap  high  the  golden  corn  ! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 

From  out  her  lavish  horn  ! 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean 

The  apple  from  the  pine, 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green, 

The  cluster  from  the  vine  ; 

We  better  love  the  hardy  gift 

Our  rugged  vales  bestow, 
To  cheer  us  when  the  storm  shall  drift 

Our  harvest-fields  with  snow. 

Through  vales  of  grass  and  meads  of 
flowers, 

Our  ploughs  their  furrows  made, 
While  on  the  hills  the  sun  and  showers 

Of  changeful  April  played. 

We  dropped  the  seed  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

Beneath  the  sun  of  May, 
And  frightened  from  our  sprouting  grain 

The  robber  crows  away. 

All    through  the   long,  bright  days  of 
June 

Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 
And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 

Its  soft  and  yellow  hair. 

And  now,  with  autumn's  moonlit  eves, 

Its  harvest-time  has  come, 
We  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 

And  bear  the  treasure  home. 

There,  richer  than  the  fabled  gift 

Apollo  showered  of  old, 
Fair  hands  the  broken  grain  shall  sift, 

And  knead  its  meal  of  gold. 

Let  vapid  idlers  loll  in  silk 
Around  their  costly  board  ; 


Give  us  the  bowl  of  samp  and  milk, 
By  homespun  beauty  poured  ! 

Where'er  the  wide  old  kitchen  hearth 

Sends  up  its  smoky  curls, 
Who  will  not  thank  the  kindly  earth, 

And  bless  our  farmer  girls  ! 

Then  shame  on  all  the  proud  and  vain, 
Whose  folly  laughs  to  scorn 

The  blessing  of  our  hardy  grain, 
Our  wealth  of  golden  corn  ! 

Let  earth  withhold  her  goodly  root, 

Let  mildew  blight  the  rye, 
Give  to  the  worm  the  orchard's  fruit. 

The  wheat-field  to  the  fly  : 

But  let  the  good  old  crop  adorn 

The  hills  our  fathers  trod  ; 
Still  let  us,  for  his  golden  corn, 

Send  up  our  thanks  to  God  ! 


THE   LUMBERMEN. 

WILDLY  round  our  woodland  quarters, 

Sad-voiced  Autumn  grieves  ; 
Thickly  down  these  swelling  waters 

Float  his  fallen  leaves. 
Through  the  tall  and  naked  timber, 

Column-like  and  old, 
Gleam  the  sunsets  of  November, 

From  their  skies  of  gold. 

O'er  us,  to  the  southland  heading, 

Screams  the  gray  wild-goose  ; 
On  the  night-frost  sounds  the  treading 

Of  the  brindled  moose. 
Noiseless  creeping,  while  we  're  sleep 
ing. 

Frost  his  task-work  plies  ; 
Soon,  his  icy  bridges  heaping, 

Shall  our  log-piles  rise. 


SONGS  OF  LABOR. 


When,  with  sounds  of  smothered  thun 
der, 

On  some  night  of  rain, 
Lake  and  river  break  asunder 

Winter's  weakened  chain, 
Down  the  wild  March  flood  shall  bear 

them 

To  the  saw-mill's  wheel, 
Or  where  Steam,  the  slave,  shall  tear 

them 
With  his  teeth  of  steel. 

Be  it  starlight,  be  it  moonlight, 

In  these  vales  below, 
When  the  earliest  beams  of  sunlight 

Streak  the  mountain's  snow, 
Crisps  the  hoar-frost,  keen  and  early, 

To  our  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  forest  echoes  clearly 

All  our  blows  repeat. 

Where  the  crystal  Ambijejis 

Stretches  broad  and  clear, 
And  Millnoket's  pine-black  ridges 

Hide  the  browsing  deer  : 
Where,  through  lakes  and  wide  mo 
rasses, 

Or  through  rocky  walls, 
Swift  and  strong,  Penobscot  passes 

White  with  foamy  falls  ; 

Where,  through   clouds,  are  glimpses 
given 

Of  Katahdin's  sides,  — 
Rock  and  forest  piled  to  heaven, 

Torn  and  ploughed  by  slides  ! 
Far  below,  the  Indian  trapping, 

In  the  sunshine  warm  ; 
Far  above,  the  snow-cloud  wrapping 

Half  the  peak  in  storm  ! 

Where  are  mossy  carpets  better 

Than  the  Persian  weaves, 
And  than  Eastern  perfumes  sweeter 

Seem  the  fading  leaves ; 
And  a  music  wild  and  solemn, 

From  the  pine-tree's  height, 
Rolls  its  vast  and  sea-like  volume 

On  the  wind  of  night ; 

Make  we  here  our  camp  of  winter; 

And,  through  sleet  and  snow, 
Pitchy  knot  and  beechen  splinter 

On  our  hearth  shall  glow. 


Here,  with  mirth  to  lighten  duty, 

We  shall  lack  alone 
Woman's  smile  and  girlhood's  beauty. 

Childhood's  lisping  tone. 

But  their  hearth  is  brighter  burning 

For  our  toil  to-day  ; 
And  the  welcome  of  returning 

Shall  our  loss  repay, 
When,  like  seamen  from  the  waters, 

From  the  woods  we  come, 
Greeting  sisters,  wives,  and  daughters, 

Angels  of  our  home  ! 

Not  for  us  the  measured  ringing 

From  the  village  spire, 
Not  for  us  the  Sabbath  singing 

Of  the  sweet-voiced  choir : 
Ours  the  old,  majestic  temple. 

Where  God's  brightness  shines 
Down  the  dome  so  grand  and  ample, 

Propped  by  lofty  pines  ! 

Through    each    branch-enwoven    sky 
light, 

Speaks  He  in  the  breeze, 
As  of  old  beneath  the  twilight 

Of  lost  Eden's  trees  ! 
For  bis  ear,  the  inward  feeling 

Needs  no  outward  tongue  ; 
He  can  see  the  spirit  kneeling 

While  the  axe  is  swung. 

Heeding  truth  alone,  and  turning 

From  the  false  and  dim, 
Lamp  of  toil  or  altar  burning 

Are  alike  to  Him. 

Strike,    then,    comrades  !  —  Trade    i* 
waiting 

On  our  rugged  toil ; 
Far  ships  waiting  for  the  freighting 

Of  our  woodland  spoil  ! 

Ships,  whose  traffic  links  these  high 
lands, 

Bleak  and  cold,  of  ours, 
With  the  citron-planted  islands 

Of  a  clime  of  flowers  ; 
To  our  frosts  the  tribute  bringing 

Of  eternal  heats; 
In  our  lap  of  winter  flinging 

Tropic  fruits  and  sweets. 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA    VISTA. 


Chfcerly,  on  the  axe  of  labor, 

Let  the  sunbeams  dance, 
Better  than  the  flash  of  sabre 

Or  the  gleam  of  lance  ! 
Strike  !  —  With  every  blow  is  given 

Freer  sun  and  sky, 
And  the  long-hid  earth  to  heaven 

Looks,  with  wondering  eye  ! 

Loud  behind  us  grow  the  murmurs 

Of  the  age  to  come  ; 
Clang  of  smiths,  and  tread  of  farmers, 

Bearing  harvest  home  ! 
Here  her  virgin  lap  with  treasures 

Shall  the  green  earth  fill ; 
Waving  wheat  and  golden  maize-ears 

Crown  each  beechen  hill. 

Keep  who  will  the  city's  alleys, 
Take  the  smooth-shorn  plain,  — 

Give  to  us  the  cedar  valleys, 
Rocks  and  hills  of  Maine  ! 


In  our  North-land,  wild  and  woody, 

Let  us  still  have  part : 
Rugged  nurse  and  mother  sturdy, 

Hold  us  to  thy  heart ! 

O,  our  free  hearts  beat  the  warmer 

For  thy  breath  of  snow  ; 
And  our  tread  is  all  the  firmer 

For  thy  rocks  below. 
Freedom,  hand  in  hand  with  labor, 

Walketh  strong  and  brave  ; 
On  the  forehead  of  his  neighbor 

No  man  writeth  Slave  ! 

Lo,  the  day  breaks  !  old  Katahdin's 

Pine-trees  show  its  fires, 
While  from  these  dim  forest  garden* 

Rise  their  blackened  spires. 
Up,  my  comrades  !  up  and  doing  ! 

Manhood's  rugged  play 
Still  renewing,  bravely  hewing - 

Through  the  world  our  way  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA. 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward  far  away, 
O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the^Mexican  array, 
Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?  are  they  far  or  come  they  near? 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls  the  storm  we  hear. 

"  Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of  battle  rolls  ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying  ;  God  have  mercy  on  their  souls  !  " 
Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning? —  "Over  hill  and  over  plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the  mountain  rain." 

Holy  Mother  !  keep  our  brothers  !  Look,  Ximena,  look  once  more. 

"  StHl  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly  as  before, 

Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and  foeman,  foot  and  horse, 

Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping  down  its  mountain  course." 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena  !  "Ah  !  the  smoke  has  rolled  away; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the  ranks  of  gray. 
Hark  !  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles  !  there  the  troop  of  Minon  wheels; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  cannon  at  their  heels. 

"  Jesu,  pity  !  how  it  thickens  !  now  retreat  and  now  advance  ! 
Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla's  charging  lance  ! 
Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders  ;  horse  and  foot  together  fall  ; 
Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through  them  ploughs  the  Northern  ball." 


I5o  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and  frightful  on  C 
Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost,  and  who  has  won? 
"  Alas  !  alas  !  I  know  not ;  friend  and  foe  together  fall, 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living  :  pray,  my  sisters,  for  them  all ! 

"  Lo  !  the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting  :  Blessed  Mother,  save  my  brain  ! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from  heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding  ;  now  they  fall,  and  strive  to  rise  ; 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die  before  our  eyes  1 

"  O  my  heart's  love  !  O  my  dear  one  1  lay  thy  poor  head  on  my  knee  : 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee  ?     Canst  thou  hear  me  ?  canst  thou  sec  ? 
O  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle  !   O  my  Bernal,  look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee  !  Mercy  !    mercy  !  all  is  o'er  !  " 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena  ;  lay  thy  dear  one  down  to  rest ; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross  upon  his  breast ; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral  masses  said : 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young,  a  soldier  lay, 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding  slow  his  life  away; 
But,  as  tenderly  before  him,  the  lorn  Ximena  knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol-belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned  away  her  head  ; 

With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back  upon  her  dead  ; 

But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  struggling  breath  of  pain, 

And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching  lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand  and  faintly  smiled  : 
Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's  ?  did  she  watch  beside  her  child  ? 
All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's  heart  supplied  ; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "Mother  !  "  murmured  he,  and  died  1 

"  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee  forth, 
From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping,  lonely,  in  the  North  ! " 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid  him  with  her  dead, 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the  wounds  which  bled. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena  !  "  Like  a  cloud  before  the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving  blood  and  death  behind; 
Ah  !  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy  ;  in  the  dust  the  wounded  strive  ; 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels  !  oh  thou  Christ  of  God,  forgive  !  " 

Sink,  O  Night,  among  thy  mountains  !  let  the  cool,  gray  shadows  fall ; 
Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy  curtain  over  all  ! 
Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart  the  battle  rolled, 
In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's  lips  grew  cold. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task  pursued, 

Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn  and  faint  and  lacking  food 

Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  tender  care  they  hung. 

And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a  strange  and  Northern  tongue. 


BARCLAY  OF  URY. 


Not  wholly  lost,  O  Father  !  is  this  evil  world  of  ours  ; 
Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes,  spring  afresh  the  Eden  flowers ; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and  Pity  send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in  our  air  ! 


FORGIVENESS. 

MY  heart  was  heavy,  for  its  trust  had 

been 
Abused,  its  kindness  answered  with 

foul  wrong ; 

So,    turning  gloomily  from  my  fellow- 
men, 
One  summer  Sabbath  day  I  strolled 

among 

The  green  mounds  of  the  village  bur 
ial-place  ; 
Where,    pondering   how  all   human 

love  and  hate 
Find  one  sad  level ;  and  how,  soon 

or  late, 
Wronged   and   wrongdoer,   each  with 

meekened  face, 
And  cold  hands  folded  over  a  still 

heart, 

Pass  the  green  threshold  of  our  com 
mon  grave, 
Whither  all  footsteps  tend,  whence 

none  depart, 

Awed  for  myself,  and  pitying  my  race, 
Our   common   sorrow,   like    a   mighty 

wave, 

Swept  all  my  pride  away,  and  trembling 
I  forgave  ! 


BARCLAY  OF  URY.*2 

UP  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 
By  the  kirk  and  college  green, 

Rode  the  Laird  of  Ury  ; 
Close  behind  him,  close  beside, 
Foul  of  mouth  and  evil-eyed, 

Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl, 
Jeered  at  him  the  serving-girl, 

Prompt  to  please  her  master  ; 
And  the  begging  carlin,  late 
Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury's  gate, 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her. 


Yet,  with  calm  and  stately  mien, 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 

Came  he  slowly  riding  ; 
And,  to  all  he  saw  and  heard, 
Answering  not  with  bitter  word, 

Turning  not  for  chiding. 

Came  a  troop  with  broadswords  swing 
ing, 
Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing, 

Loose  and  free  and  froward  ; 
Quoth  the  foremost,  "  Ride  him  down  I 
Push  him  !  prick  him  !  through  the  town 

Drive  the  Quaker  coward  !  " 

But  from  out  the  thickening  crowd 
Cried  a  sudden  voice  and  loud  : 

"  Barclay  !  Ho  !  a  Barclay  !  " 
And  the  old  man  at  his  side 
Saw  a  comrade,  battle  tried, 

Scarred  and  sun-burned  darkly ; 

Who  with  ready  weapon  bare, 
Fronting  to  the  troopers  there, 

Cried  aloud :  "  God  save  us, 
Call  ye  coward  him  who  stood 
Ankle  deep  in  Lutzen's  blood, 

With  the  brave  Gustavus  ? " 

"  Nay,  I  do  not  need  thy  sword, 
Comrade  mine,"  said  Ury's  lord; 

"  Put  it  up,  I  pray  thee  : 
Passive  to  his  holy  will, 
Trust  I  in  my  Master  still, 

Even  though  he  slay  me. 

"  Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 
Proved  on  many  a  field  of  death, 

Not  by  me  are  needed." 
Marvelled  much  that  henchman  bold, 
That  his  laird,  so  stout  of  old, 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 

"  Woe 's  the  day  !  "  he  sadly  said, 
With  a  slowly-shaking  head, 

And  a  look  of  pity  ; 
"  Ury's  honest  lord  reviled, 


MIS  CELL  A  NEOUS. 


Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 
In  his  own  good  city  ! 

"  Speak  the  word,  and,  master  mine, 
As  we  charged  on  Tilly's  line, 

And  his  Walloon  lancers, 
Smiting  through  their  midst  we  '11  teach 
Civil  look  and  decent  speech 

To  these  boyish  prancers  !  " 

"  Marvel  not,  mine  ancient  friend, 
Like  beginning,  like  the  end  "  : 

Quoth  the  Laird  of  Ury, 
"  Is  the  sinful  servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 

Bonds  and  stripes  in  Jewry  ? 

"Give  me  joy  that  in  his  name 
I  can  bear,  with  patient  frame, 

All  these  vain  ones  offer  ; 
While  for  them  He  suffereth  long, 
Shall  I  answer  wrong  with  wrong, 

Scoffing  with  the  scoffer? 

"  Happier  I,  with  loss  of  all, 
Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  me, 
Than  when  reeve  and  squire  were  seen, 
Riding  out  from  Aberdeen, 

With  bared  heads  to  meet  me. 

"  When  each  goodwife,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Blessed  me  as  I  passed  her  door  ; 

And  the  snooded  daughter, 
Through  her  casement  glancing  down, 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 

From  red  fields  of  slaughter. 

"  Hard  to  feel  the  stranger's  scoff, 
Hard  the  old  friend's  failing  off, 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving  : 
But  the  Lord  his  own  rewards, 
And  his  love  with  theirs  accords, 

Warm  and  fresh  and  living. 

"Through  this  dark  and  stormy  night 
Faith  beholds  a  feeble  light 

Up  the  blackness  streaking  ; 
Knowing  God's  own  time  is  best, 
In  a  patient  hope  I  rest 

For  the  full  day-breaking !  " 

So  the  Laird  of  Ury  said, 
Turning  slow  his  horse's  head 


Towards  the  Tolbooth  prison, 
Where,  through  iron  grates,  he  heard 
Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 

Preach  of  Christ  arisen  ! 

Not  in  vain,  Confessor  old, 
Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 

Of  thy  day  of  trial ; 
Every  age  on  him,  who  strays 
From  its  broad  and  beaten  ways, 

Pours  its  sevenfold  vial. 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 
Angel  comfortings  can  hear, 

O'er  the  rabble's  laughter  ; 
And,  while  Hatred's  fagots  burn, 
Glimpses  through  the  smoke  discern 

Of  the  good  hereafter. 

Knowing  this,  that  never  yet 
Share  of  Truth  was  vainly  set 

In  the  world's  wide  fallow  ; 
After  hands  shall  sow  the  seed, 
After  hands  from  hill  and  mead 

Reap  the  harvests  yellow. 

Thus,  with  somewhat  of  the  Seer, 
Must  the  moral  pioneer 

From  the  Future  borrow  ; 
Clothe  the  waste  with  dreams  of  grain, 
And,  on  midnight's  sky  of  rain, 

Paint  the  golden  morrow  ! 


WHAT  THE  VOICE  SAID. 

MADDENED  by  Earth's  wrong  and  evil, 
"  Lord  !  "   I  cried  in  sudden  ire, 

"  From   thy   right   hand,  clothed  with 

thunder, 
Shake  the  bolted  fire  ! 

"  Love  is  lost,  and  Faith  is  dying  ; 

With  the  brute  the  man  is  sold  ; 
And  the  dropping  bloc-d  of  labor 

Hardens  into  gold. 

"  Here  the  dying  wail  of  Famine, 
There  the  battle's  groan  of  pain  ; 

And,  in  silence,  smooth-faced  Mammon 
Reaping  men  like  grain. 


TO  DELAWARE. 


J53 


" '  Where  is  God,  that  we  should  fear 
Him?' 

Thus  the  earth-born  Titans  say  ; 
'  God  !  if  thou  art  living,  hear  us  ! ' 

Thus  the  weak  ones  pray  " 

"  Thou,  the  patient   Heaven  upbraid 
ing," 

Spake  a  solemn  Voice  within  ; 
"  Weary  of  our  Lord's  forbearance, 

Art  thou  free  from  sin  ? 

"  Fearless  brow  to  Him  uplifting, 
Canst  thou  for  his  thunders  call, 

Knowing  that  to  guilt's  attraction 
Evermore  they  fall? 

"  Know'st  thou  not  all  germs  of  evil 
In  thy  heart  await  their  time  ? 

Not  thyself,  but  God's  restraining, 
Stays  their  growth  of  crime. 

"  Coulclst  thou  boast,  O  child  of  weak 
ness  ! 

O'er  the  sons  of  wrong  and  strife, 
Were  their  strong  temptations  planted 

In  thy  path  of  life  ? 

"  Thou  hast  seen  two  streamlets  gush 
ing 

From  one  fountain,  clear  and  free, 
But  by  widely  varying  channels 

Searching  for  the  sea. 

"  Glideth  one  through  greenest  valleys, 
Kissing  them  with  lips  still  sweet ; 

One,  mad  roaring  down  the  mountains, 
Stagnates  at  their  feet. 

"  Is  it  choice  whereby  the  Parsee 
Kneels  before  his  mother's  fire  ? 

In  his  black  tent  did  the  Tartar 
Choose  his  wandering  sire  ? 

"  He  alone,  whose  hand  is  bounding 
Human  power  and  human  will, 

Looking  through  each  soul's  surround 
ing. 
Knows  its  good  or  ill. 

"  For  thyself,  while  wrong  and  sorrow 
Make  to  tliee  their  strong  appeal, 

Coward  wert  thou  not  to  utter 
What  the  heart  must  feel. 


"Earnest  words  must  needs  be  spoken 
When  the  warm  heart  bleeds  or  burns 

With  its  scorn  of  wrong,  or  pity 
For  the  wronged,  by  turns. 

"  But,  by  all  thy  nature's  weakness, 
Hidden  faults  and  follies  known, 

Be  thou,  in  rebuking  evil, 
Conscious  of  thine  own. 

"  Not  the  less  shall  stern-eyed  Duty 
To  thy  lips  her  trumpet  set, 

But  with  harsher  blasts  shall  mingle 
Wailingsof  regret." 

Cease  not,  Voice  of  holy  speaking, 
Teacher  sent  of  God,  be  near, 

Whispering    through    the    day's    cool 

silence, 
Let  my  spirit  hear  ! 

So,  when  thoughts  of  evil-doers 
Waken  scorn,  or  hatred  move, 

Shall  a  mournful  fellow-feeling 
Temper  all  with  love. 


TO  DELAWARE. 

[Written  during  the  discussion  in  the 
Legislature  of  that  State,  in  the  winter 
of  184(5-47,  of  a  bill  for  the  abolition  of 
slavery.] 

THRICE  welcome  to  thy  sisters  of  the 

East, 

To  the  strong  tillersof  a  rugged  home, 
With  spray- wet  locks  to  Northern  winds 

released, 
And  hardy  feet  o'erswept  by  ocean's 

foam  ; 
And  to  the  young  nymphs  of  the  golden 

West, 
Whose  harvest  mantles,  fringed  with 

prairie  bloom, 
Trail    in    the    sunset,  —  O   redeemed 

and  blest, 
To  the  warm  welcome  of  thy  sisters 

come  ! 

Broad   Pennsylvania,    down   her    sail- 
white  bay 

Shall  give  thee  joy,  and  Jersey  from 
her  plains, 


154 


MIS  CELL  ANEO  US. 


And  the  great  lakes,  where  echo,  free 

alway, 
Moaned   never  shoreward  with  the 

clank  of  chains, 
Shall   weave    new  sun-bows  in    their 

tossing  spray, 

And  all  their  waves  keep  grateful  holi 
day. 
And,   smiling    on    thee    through    her 

mountain  rains, 
Vermont   shall  bless  thee  ;   and  the 

Granite  peaks, 
And  vast    Katahdin   o'er  his  woods, 

shall  wear 
Their  snow-crowns  brighter  in  the  cold 

keen  air ; 
And  Massachusetts,  with  her  rugged 

cheeks 
O'errun  with  grateful  tears,  shall  turn 

to  thee, 
When,  at   thy  bidding,   the   electric 

wire 
Shall    tremble    northward  with    its 

words  of  fire  ; 
Glory  and  praise  to  God !  another  State 

is  free  ! 


WORSHIP. 

"Pure  religion,  and  undefilcd,  before 
God  and  the  Father  is  this  •  To  visit  the 
widows  and  the  fatherless  in  their  affliction, 
and  to  keep  himself  unspotted  from  the 
world."—  James  i.  27. 

THE   Pagan's   myths   through   marble 

lips  are  spoken, 
And  ghosts  of  old  Beliefs  still  flit  and 

moan 
Round  fane  and  altar  overthrown  and 

broken, 

O'er  tree-grown  barrow  and  gray  ring 
of  stone. 

Blind  Faith  had  martyrs  in  those  old 

high  places, 
The  Syrian  hill  grove  and  the  Druid's 

wood, 
With  mother's  offering,  to  the  Fiend's 

embraces, 

Bone  of  their  bone,  and  blood  of  their 
own  blood. 


Red  altars,  kindling  through  that  night 

of  error, 
Smoked  with  warm  blood  beneath  the 

cruel  eye 

Of  lawless  Power  and  sanguinary  Ter 
ror, 

Throned  on  the  circle  of  a  pitiless 
sky  ; 

Beneath  whose  baleful  shadow,  over 
casting 
All  heaven  above,  and  blighting  earth 

below, 
The  scourge  grew  red,   the  lip  grew 

pale  with  fasting, 

And  man's  oblation  was  his  fear  and 
woe  ! 

Then  through  great  temples  swelled  the 

dismal  moaning 
Of  dirge-like   music  and  sepulchral 

prayer  ; 
Pale  wizard  priests,  o'er  occult  symbols 

droning, 

Swung  their  white  censers  in  the  bur 
dened  air  : 

As  if  the  pomp  of   rituals,   and  the 

savor 
Of  gums  and  spices  could  the  Unseen 

One  please  ; 
As  if  his  ear  could  bend,  with  childish 

favor, 
To  the  poor  flattery  of  the  organ  keys  ! 

Feet  red  from  war-fields  trod  the  church 

aisles  holy, 
With   trembling  reverence :  and  the 

oppressor  there, 
Kneeling  before  his  priest,  abased  and 

lowly, 

Crushed'  human   hearts  beneath  his 
knee  of  prayer. 

Not  such  the   service  the    benignant 

Father 
Requireth   at  his  earthly  children's 

hands : 
Not  the  poor  offering  of  vain  rites,  but 

rather 

The  simple  duty  man  from  man  de 
mands. 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY. 


155 


For  Earth  he  asks  it :  the  full  joy  of 

Heaven 
Knoweth   no   change   of  waning  or 

increase  ; 
The  great  heart  of  the  Infinite  beats 

even, 

Untroubled  flows  the   river  of   his 
peace. 

He  asks  no  taper  lights,  on  high  sur 
rounding 
The    priestly  altar  and  the  saintly 

grave, 
No  dolorous  chant  nor  organ  music 

sounding, 

Nor  incense  clouding  up  the  twilight 
nave. 

For  he  whom  Jesus  loved  hath  truly 

spoken  : 
The  holier  worship  which  he  deigns 

to  bless 
Restores  the  lost,  and  binds  the  spirit 

broken, 

And  feeds  the  widow  and  the  father 
less  ! 

Types  of  our  human  weakness  and  our 

sorrow  ! 
Wholives  unhauntedbyhis  loved  ones 

dead  ? 
Who,  with  vain  longing,  seeketh  not  to 

borrow 

From  stranger  eyes  the  home  lights 
which  have  fled? 

O  brother  man  !  fold  to  thy  heart  thy 

brother ; 
Where  pity  dwells,  the  peace  of  God 

is  there  ; 
To    worship    rightly   is    to   love    each 

other, 

Each  smile  a  hymn,  each  kindly  deed 
a  prayer. 

Follow  with  reverent  steps  the  great 

example 
Of  Him  whose  holy  work  was  "  doing 

good  "  ; 

So  shall  the  wide  earth  seem  our  Fa 
ther's  temple, 
Each  loving  life  a  psalm  of  gratitude. 


Then  shall  all  shackles  fall ;  the  stormy 

clangor 
Of  wild  war  music  o'er  the  earth  shall 

cease  ; 
Love  shall  tread  out  the  baleful  fire  of 

anger, 
Andin  itsashesplant  the  tree  of  peace  ! 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY. 

THE  Brownie  sits  in  the  Scotchman's 

room, 

And  eats  his  meat  and  drinks  his  ale, 
And  beats  the  maid  with  her  unused 

broom, 

And  the  lazy  lout  with  his  idle  flail, 
But  he  sweeps  the  floor  and  threshes 

the  corn, 
And   hies  him  away  ere  the  break  of 

dawn. 

Theshadeof  Denmark  fled  from  the  sun, 
And  the   Cocklane  ghost   from  the 
barnloft  cheer, 

The  fiend  of  Faust  was  a  faithful  one, 
Agrippa's  demon  wrought  in  fear, 

And  the  devil  of  Martin  Luther  sat 

By  the  stout  monk's  side  in  social  chat. 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  on  the  neck 

of  him 

Who  seven  times  crossed  the  deep, 
Twined  closely  each  lean  and  withered 

limb, 

Like  the  nightmare  in  one's  sleep. 
But  he  drank  of  the  wine,  and  Sinbad 

cast 
The  evil  weight  from  his  back  at  last. 

But  the  demon  that  cometh  day  by  day 
To  my  quiet  room  and  fireside  nook, 

Where  the  casement  light  falls  dim  and 

gray 
On  faded  painting  and  ancient  book, 

Is  a  sorrier  one  than  any  whose  names 

Are  chronicled  well  by  good  king  James. 

No  bearer  of  burdens  like  Caliban, 
No  runner  of  errands  like  Ariel, 

He  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  fat  old  man, 
Without  rap  of  knuckle  or  pull   of 
bell; 


156 


MIS  CELL  A  NEOUS. 


And  whence  he  comes,  or  whither  he 

goes, 
I  know  as  I  do  of  the  wind  which  blows. 

A  stout  old  man  with  a  greasy  hat 
Slouched  heavily  down  to  his  dark, 

red  nose, 

And  two  gray  eyes  enveloped  in  fat, 
Looking  through  glasses  with  iron 

bows. 

Read  ye,  and  heed  ye,  and  ye  who  can, 
Guard  well  your  doors  from   that   old 
man  ! 

He  comes  with  a  careless  "  How  d'  ye 

do?" 

And  seats  himself  in  my  elbow-chair  ; 
And  my  morning  paper  and  pamphlet 

new 

Fall  forthwith  under  his  special  care, 
And  he  wipes  his  glasses  and  clears  his 

throat, 
And,  button  by  button,  unfolds  his  coat. 

And  then  he  reads  from  paper  and  book, 

In  a  low  and  husky  asthmatic  tone, 
With  the  stolid  sameness  of  posture  and 

look 

Of  one  who  reads  to  himself  alone  ; 
And  hour  after  hour  on  my  senses  come 
That  husky  wheeze  and  that  dolorous 
hum. 

The  price  of  stocks,  the  auction  sales, 

The  poet's  song  and  the  lover's  glee, 
The    horrible    murders,    the   seaboard 

gales}< 
The  marriage  list,  and  the  jeu  cfe- 

sprit, 

AH  reach  my  ear  in  the  selfsame  tone, — 
I  shudder  at  each,  but  the  fiend  reads 
on  ! 

O,  sweet  as  the  lapse  of  water  at  noon 
O'er  the  mossy  roots  of  some  forest 

tree, 
The  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  woods  of 

June, 
Or  sound  of  flutes  o'er  a  moonlight 

sea, 
Or  the  low  soft  music,  perchance,  which 

seems 
To  float  through  the  slumbering  singer's 

dreams, 


So  sweet,  so  dear  is  the  silvery  tone, 
Of  her  in  whose  features  I  sometimes 

look, 
As  I  sit  at  eve  by  her  side  alone, 

And  we  read  by  turns  from  the  self 
same  book,  — 

Some  tale  perhaps  of  the  olden  time, 
Some   lover's  romance  or  quaint  old 
rhyme. 

Then  when  the  story  is  one  of  woe,  — 
Some   prisoner's  plaint   through  his 

dungeon -bar, 

Her  blue  eye  glistens  with  tears,  and  low 
Her  voice  sinks  down  like  a  moan 

afar  ; 

And  I  seem  to  hear  that  prisoner's  wail, 
And  his  face  looks  on  me  worn  and  pale. 

And  when  she  reads  some  merrier  song, 
Her  voice  is  glad  as  an  April  bird's, 

And  when  the  tale  is  of  war  and  wrong, 
A  trumpet's  summons  is  in  her  words, 

And  the  rush  of  the  hosts  I  seem  to  hear, 

And  see  the  tossing  of  plume  and 
spear ! — 

O,  pity  me  then,  when,  day  by  day, 
The  stout  fiend  darkens  my  parlor 
door ; 

And  reads  me  perchance  the  selfsame 

lay 

Which  melted   in  music,  the  night 
before, 

From  lips  as  the  lips  of  Hylas  sweet, 

And  moved  like  twin  roses  which  zeph 
yrs  meet ! 

I  cross  my  floor  with  a  nervous  tread, 
I  whistle  and  laugh   and   sing  and 

shout, 
I  flourish  my  cane  above  his  head, 

And  stir  up  the  fire  to  roast  him  out ; 
I  topple  the  chairs,  and  drum  on  the 

pane, 
And  press  my  hands  on  my  ears,  in  vain  ! 

I  've  studied  Glanville  and  James  the 

wise, 
And  wizard  black-letter  tomes  which 

treat 

Of  demons  of  every  name  and  size, 
Which  a  Christian  man  is  presumed 
to  meet, 


THE  PUMPKIN. 


But  never  a  hint  and  never  a  line 
Can  I  find  of  a  reading  fiend  like  mine. 

I  've  crossed  the  Psalter  with  Brady  and 
Tale, 

And  laid  the  Primer  above  them  all, 
I  've  nailed  a  horseshoe  over  the  grate, 

And  hung  a  wig  to  my  parlor  wall 
Once  worn  by  a  learned  Judge,  they  say, 
At  Salem  court  in  the  witchcraft  day ! 

"  Conjuro  te,  sceleratissime, 
A  hire  ad  tuiim  locztm  !  "  —  still 

Like  a  visible  nightmare  he  sits  by  me, — 
The  exorcism  has  lost  its  skill  ; 

And  I  hear  again  in  my  haunted  room 

The  husky  wheeze   and  the   dolorous 
hum  ! 

Ah  !  — commend  me  to  Mary  Magdalen 
With  her  sevenfold  plagues,  —  to  the 

wandering  Jew, 
To  the  terrors  which  haunted  Orestes 

when 

The  furies  his  midnight  curtains  drew, 
But  charm  him  off,  ye  who  charm  him 

can, 

That  reading  demon,   that  fat    old 
man  ! 


THE   PUMPKIN. 

O,  GREENLY  and  fair  in  the  lands  of 
the  sun, 

The  vines  of  the  gourd  and  the  rich 
melon  run, 

And  the  rock  and  the  tree  and  the  cot 
tage  enfold, 

With  broad  leaves  all  greenness  and 
blossoms  all  gold, 

Like  that  which  o'er  Nineveh's  prophet 
once  grew, 

While  he  waited  to  know  that  his  warn 
ing  was  true, 

And  longed  for  the  storm-cloud,  and 
listened  in  vain 

For  the  rush  of  the  whirlwind  and  red 
fire-rain. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Xeml  the  dark 

Spanish  maiden 
Comes  up  with  the  fruit  of  the  tangled 

vine  laden ; 


And  the  Creole  of  Cuba  laughs  out  to 
behold 

Through  orange-leaves  shining  the 
broad  spheres  of  gold  ; 

Yet  with  dearer  delight  from  his  home 
in  the  North, 

On  the  fields  of  his  harvest  the  Yankee 
looks  forth, 

Where  crook-necks  are  coiling  and  yel 
low  fruit  shines, 

And  the  sun  of  September  melts  down 
on  his  vines. 

Ah  !  on  Thanksgiving  day,  when  from 
East  and  from  West, 

From  North  and  from  South  come  the 
pilgrim  and  guest, 

When  the  gray-haired  New-Englander 
sees  round  his  board 

The  old  broken  links  of  affection  re 
stored, 

When  the  care-wearied  man  seeks  his 
mother  once  more, 

And  the  worn  matron  smiles  where  the 
girl  smiled  before, 

What  moistens  the  lip  and  what  bright 
ens  the  eye  ? 

What  calls  back  the  past,  like  the  rich 
Pumpkin  pie? 

O,  — fruit  loved  of  boyhood  ! —  the  old 

days  recalling, 
When  wood-grapes  were  purpling  and 

brown  nuts  were  falling  ! 
When  wild,  ugly  faces  we  carved  in  its 

skin, 
Glaring  out  through  the  dark  with  a 

candle  within  ! 
When  we  laughed  round  the  corn-heap, 

with  hearts  all  in  tune, 
Our  chair  a  broad  pumpkin,  —  our  lan 
tern  the  moon, 
Telling  tales  of  the  fairy  who  travelled 

like  steam, 
In  a  pumpkin-shell  coach,  with  two  rats 

for  her  team ! 

Then  thanks  for  thy  present !  —  none 

sweeter  or  better 
E'er  smoked  from  an  oven  or  circled  a 

platter  ! 
Fairer  hands  never  wrought  at  a  pastry 

more  fine, 
Brighter  eyes  never  watched   o'er  its 

baking,  than  thine  ! 


MISCELLA  NEOUS. 


And  the  prayer,  which  my  mouth  is  too 
full  to  express, 

Swells  my  heart  that  thy  shadow  may 
never  be  less, 

That  the  days  of  thy  lot  maybe  length 
ened  below, 

And  the  fame  of  thy  worth  like  a  pump 
kin-vine  grow, 

And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last 
sunset  sky 

Golden-tinted  and  fair  as  thy  own 
Pumpkin  pie  ! 


EXTRACT      FROM     "  A     NEW 
ENGLAND   LEGEND." 

How  has  New  England's  romance  fled, 

Even  as  a  vision  of  the  morning  ! 
Its     rites     foredone,  —  its     guardians 

dead,  — 
Its  priestesses,  bereft  of  dread, 

Waking  the  veriest  urchin's  scorning  ! 
Gone  like  the  Indian  wizard's  yell 

Agd  fire-dance  round  the  magic  rock, 
Forgotten  like  the  Druid's  spell 

At  moonrise  by  his  holy  oak  ! 
No  more  along  the  shadowy  glen, 
Glide  the  dim  ghosts  of  murdered  men  ; 
No  more  the  unquiet  churchyard  dead 
Glimpse  upward  from  (heir  turfy  bed, 

Startling  the  traveller,  late  and  lone  ; 
As,  on  some  night  of  starless  weather, 
They  silently  commune  together, 

Each  sitting  on  his  own  head-stone  ! 
The  roofless  house,  decayed,  deserted, 
Its  living  tenants  all  departed, 
No  longer  rings  with  midnight  revel 
Of  witch,  or  ghost,  or  goblin  evil  ; 
No  pale  blue  flame  sends  out  its  flashes 
Through  creviced  roof  and   shattered 

sashes ! — 

The  witch-grass  round  the  hazel  spring 
May  sharply  to  the  night-air  sing, 
But  there  no  more  shall  withered  hags 
Refresh  at  ease  their  broomstick  nags, 
Or  taste  those  hazel-shadowed  waters 
Asbeverage meet  for  Satan's  daughters; 
No  more  their  mimic  tones  be  heard,  — 
The  mew  of  cat,  —  the  chirp  of  bird,  — 
Shrill  blending  with  the  hoarser  laugh 
ter 
Of  the  fell  demon  following  after  ! 


The  cautious  goodman  nails  no  more 
A  horseshoe  on  his  outer  door, 
Lest  some  unseemly  hag  should  fit 
To  his  own  mouth  her  bridle-bit,  — 
The  goodwife's  churn  no  more  refuses 
Its  wonted  culinary  uses 
Until,  with  heated  needle  burned, 
The  witch  has  to  her  place  returned  1 
Our  witches  are  no  longer  old 
And  wrinkled  beldames,  Satan-sold, 
But  young  and  gay  and  laughing  crea 
tures, 

With  the  heart's  sunshine  on  their  fea 
tures,  — 

Their  sorcery —  the  light  which  dances 
Where  the  raised  lid  unveils  its  glances ; 
Or  that  low-breathed  and  gentle  tone, 

The  music  of  Love's  twilight  hours, 
Soft,  dreamlike,  as  a  fairy's  moan 

Above  her  nightly  closing  flowers, 
Sweeter  than  that  which  sighed  of  yore, 
Along  the  charmed  Ausoman  shore  ! 
Even  she,  our  own  weird  heroine, 
Sole  Pythoness  of  ancient  Lynn, 

Sleeps  calmly  where  thelivinglaidher; 
And  the  wide  realm  of  sorcery, 
Left  by  its  latest  mistress  free, 

Hath  found  no  gray  and  skilled  in 
vader  : 
So  perished  Albion's  "glammarye," 

With  him  in  Melrose  Abbey  sleeping, 
His  charmed  torch  beside  his  knee, 
That  even  the  dead  himself  might  see 

The  magic  scroll  within  his  keeping. 
And  now  our  modern  Yankee  sees 
Nor  omens,  spells,  nor  mysteries  ; 
And  naught  above,  below,  around, 
Of  life  or  death,  of  sight  or  sound, 

Whate'er  its  nature,  form,  or  look, 
Excites  his  terror  or  surprise,  — 
All  seeming  to  his  knowing  eyes 
Familiar  as  his  "catechize," 

Or  "  Webster's  Spelling-Book." 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 

THE  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright, 

Where,  miles  away, 
Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 
A  luminous  belt,  a  misty  light, 
Beyond  the  dark  pine  bluffs  and  wastes 
of  sandy  gray. 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 


159 


The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea  ! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free, 
With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast 
for  miles  around. 

On  —  on  —  we  tread  with  loose-flung 

rein 

Our  seaward  way, 

Through  dark-green  fields  and  blos 
soming  grain, 
Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the 

lane, 

And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flower 
ing  locust  spray. 

Ha  !  like  a  kind  hand  on  my  brow 

Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 
Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow, 
While  through  my  being  seems  to  flow 
The  breath  of  a  new  life,  —  the  healing 
of  the  seas  ! 

Now  rest  we,  where  this  grassy  mound 

His  feet  hath  set 

In  the  great  waters,  which  have  bound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds 
with  cool  spray  wet. 

Good  by  to  pain  and  care  !  I  take 

Mine  ease  to-day  : 

Here  where  these  sunny  waters  break, 
And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I  shake 
All  burdens  from  the  heart,  all  weary 
thoughts  away. 

I  draw  a  freer  breath  —  I  seem 

Like  all  1  see  — 
Waves  in  the  sun  —  the  white-winged 

gleam 

Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam — • 
And  far-off  sails  which  flit  before  the 
south-wind  free. 

So  when  Time's  veil  shall  fall  asunder, 

The  soul  may  know 
Nofearful  change,  nor  sudden  wonder, 
Nor  sink  the  weight  of  mystery  under, 
But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with  the 
vastness  grow. 


And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may  seem 

No  new  revealing  ; 
Familiar  as  our  childhood's  stream, 
Or  pleasant  memory  of  a  dream 
The  loved  and  cherished  Past  upon  the 
new  life  stealing. 

Serene  and  mild  the  untried  light 

May  have  its  dawning  ; 
And,  as  in  summer's  northern  night 
The  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend  with 
the  soul's  new  morning. 

I  sit  alone  ;  in  foam  and  spray 

Wave  after  wave 
Breaks  on  the  rocks  which,  stern  and 

grav> 

Shoulder  the  broken  tide  away, 
Or  murmurs  hoarse  and  strong  through 
mossy  cleft  and  cave. 

What  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land 

And  noisy  town  ? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
Fromits  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer 
waves  shuts  down  ! 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I  yield  to  all 
The  change  of  cloud  and  wave  and 

wind, 

And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 
I  wander  with  the  waves,  and  with  them 
rise  and  fall. 

But  look,  thou  dreamer  !  —  wave  and 

shore 

In  shadow  lie  ; 
The  night-wind  warns  me  back  onc« 

more 

To  where,  my  native  hill-tops  o'er, 
Bends  like  an  arch  of  fire  the  glowing 
sunset  sky. 

So  then,  beach,  bluff,  and  wave,  fard 

well  ! 

I  bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 
But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 
Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  musing 
by  the  Sea. 


i6o 


MISCELLA  NE  0  US. 


LINES, 


WRITTEN  ON  HEARING  OF  THE  DEATH 
OF   SILAS   WRIGHT   OF   NEW   YORK. 

As  they  who,  tossing  midst  the  storm 

at  night, 
While   turning  shoreward,  where  a 

beacon  shone, 

Meet   the  walled   blackness  of  the 
heaven  alone, 

So,  on   the   turbulent  waves  of  party 
tossed, 

In  gloom  and  tempest,  men  have  seen 

thy  light 

Quenched  in  the  darkness.     At  thy 
hour  of  noon, 

While   life    was   pleasant  to  thy  un- 
dimmed  sight, 

And,    day  by  day,   within    thy   spirit 
grew 

A  holier  hope   than   young  Ambition 
knew, 

As   through   thy   rural    quiet,    not    in 
vain, 

Pierced  the  sharp  thrill  of  Freedom's 

cry  of  pain, 

Man   of  the  millions,  thou  art  lost 
too  soon  ! 

Portents  at  which  the   bravest  stand 
aghast,  — 

The  birth-throes  of  a  Future,  strange 

and  vast, 

Alarm  the   land  ;   yet  thou,  so  wise 
and  strong, 

Suddenly  summoned  to  the  burial  bed, 
Lapped  in  its  slumbers  deep  and  ever 
long, 

Hear'st   not  the   tumult  surging  over 
head. 

Who  now  shall  rally  Freedom's  scat 
tering  host? 

Who   wear  the  -mantle  of  the   leader 
lost? 

Who  stay  the  march  of  slavery?     He 

whose  voice 
Hath  called  thee  from  thy  task-field 

shall  not  lack 

Yet  bolder  champions,  to  beat  brave 
ly  back 

The  wrong  which,  through   his  poor 
ones,  reaches  Him  : 

Yet  firmer  hands  shall  Freedom's  torch 
lights  trim, 


And  wave    them    high   across  the 

abysmal  black, 
Till  bound,  dumb  millions  there  shall 

see  them  and  rejoice. 
\Qth  mo.,  1847. 


LINES, 

ACCOMPANYING       MANUSCRIPTS       PRE 
SENTED   TO   A    FRIEND. 

'T  is  said  that  in  the  Holy  Land 
The  angels  of  the  place  have  blessed 

The  pilgrim's  bed  of  desert  sand, 
Like  Jacob's  stone  of  rest. 

That  down  the  hush  of  Syrian  skies 
Some  sweet-voiced  saint  at  twilight 
sings 

The  song  whose  holy  symphonies 
Are  beat  by  unseen  wings  ; 

Till  starting  from  his  sandy  bed, 

The  wayworn  wanderer  looks  to  see 

The  halo  of  an  angel's  head 

Shine  through  the  tamarisk-tree. 

So  through  the  shadows  of  my  way 
Thy  smile  hath  fallen  soft  and  clear, 

So  at  the  weary  close  of  day 

Hath  seemed  thy  voice  of  cheer. 

That  pilgrim  pressing  to  his  goal 

May  pause  not  for  the  vision's  sake, 

Yet  all  fair  things  within  his  soul 
The  thought  of  it  shall  wake  : 

The  graceful  palm-tree  by  the  well, 
Seen  on  the  far  horizon's  rim  ; 

The  dark  eyes  of  the  fleet  gazelle, 
Bent  timidly  on  him  ; 

Each  pictured  saint,  whose  go'den  hair 
Streams  sunlike  through  the  con 
vent's  gloom  ; 

Pale  shrines  of  martyrs  young  and  fairr 
And  loving  Mary's  tomb  ; 

And  thus  each  tint  or  shade  which  falls> 
From  sunset  cloud  or  waving  tree, 

Along  my  pilgrim  path,  recalls 
The  pleasant  thought  of  thee. 


THE   REWARD. 


161 


Of  one  in  sun  and  shade  the  same, 
In  weal  and  woe  my  steady  friend, 

Whatever  by  that  holy  name 
The  angels  comprehend. 

Not  blind  to  faults  and  follies,  thou 
Hast  never  failed  the  good  to  see, 

Nor  judged  by  one  unseemly  bough 
The  upward-struggling  tree. 

These  light  leaves  at  thy  feet  I  lay,  — 
Poor  common  thoughts  on  common 
things, 

Which  time  is  shaking,  day  by  day, 
Like  feathers  from  his  wings,  — 

Chance  shootings  from  a  frail  life-tree, 
To  nurturing  care  but  little  known, 

Their  good  was  partly  learned  of  thee 
Their  folly  is  my  own, 

That  tree  still  clasps  the  kindly  mould, 
Its  leaves  still  drink  the  twilight  dew, 

And  weaving  its  pale  green  with  gold, 
Still  shines  the  sunlight  through. 

There  still  the  morning  zephyrs  play, 
And  there  at  times  the  spring  bird 
sings, 

And  mossy  trunk  and  fading  spray 
Are  flowered  with  glossy  wings. 

Yet,  even  in  genial  sun  and  rain, 
Root,  branch,  and  leaflet  fail  and  fade; 

The  wanderer  on  its  lonely  plain 
Erelong  shall  miss  its  shade. 

O  friend  beloved,  whose  curious  skill 
Keeps  bright  the  last  year's  leaves 

and  flowers, 
With  warm,  glad  summer  thoughts  to 

fill 
The  cold,  dark,  winter  hours  ! 

Pressed  on  thy  heart,  the  leaves  I  bring 
May  well  defy  the  wintry  cold, 

Until,  in  Heaven's  eternal  spring, 
Life's  fairer  ones  unfold. 


THE   REWARD. 

WHO,  looking  backward  from  his  man 
hood's  prime, 
Sees  not  the  spectre  of  his  misspent  time? 


And,  through  the  shade 
Of  funeral  cypress  planted  thick  behind, 
Hears  no  reproachful  whisper  on  the 
wind 

From  his  loved  dead  ? 

Who  bears  no  trace  of  passion's  evil 

force  ? 

Who  shuns  thy  sting,  O  terrible  Re 
morse  ?  — 
Who  does  not  cast 
On  the  thronged  pages  of  his  memory's 

book, 

At  times,  a  sad  and  half-reluctant  look, 
Regretful  of  the  Past  ? 

Alas!  —  the  evil  which  we  fain  would 

shun 
We  do,  and  leave  the  wished-for  good 

undone : 

Our  strength  to-day 
Is  but  to-morrow's  weakness,  prone  to 

fall; 

Poor,  blind,  unprofitable  servants  all 
Are  we  alway. 

Yet  who,  thus  looking  backward  o'er 

his  years, 
Feels  not  his  eyelids  wet  with  grateful 

tears, 

t  If  he  hath  been 

Permitted,  weak  and  sinful  as  he  was, 
To  cheer  and  aid,  in  some  ennobling 

cause, 
His  fellow-men  ? 

If  he  hath  hidden  the  outcast,  or  let  in 
A  ray  of  sunshine  to  the  cell  of  sin,  — 

If  he  hath  lent 
Strength  to  the  weak,  and,  in  an  hour  of 

need, 
Over  the  suffering,  mindless  of  his  creed 

Or  home,  hath  bent. 

He  has  not  lived  in  vain,  and  while  he 
gives 

The  praise  to  Him,  in  whom  he  moves 

and  lives, 
With  thankful  heart ; 

He   gazes  backward,   and  with   hope 
before, 

Knowing  that  from  his  works  he  never 
more 
Can  henceforth  part. 


1 62 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


RAPHAEL. 

I  SHALL  not  soon  forget  that  sight : 
The  glow  of  autumn's  westering  day, 

A  hazy  warmth,  a  dreamy  light, 
On  Raphael's  picture  lay. 

It  was  a  simple  print  I  saw, 
The  fair  face  of  a  musing  boy ; 

Yet,  while  I  gazed,  a  sense  of  awe 
Seemed  blending  with  my  joy. 

A  simple  print :  —  the  graceful  flow 
Of  boyhood's  soft  and  wavy  hair, 

And  fresh  young  lip  and  cheek,  and 

brow 
Unmarked  and  clear,  were  there. 

Yet  through  its  sweet  and  calm  repose 
I  saw  the  inward  spirit  shine ; 

It  was  as  if  before  me  rose 
The  white  veil  of  a  shrine. 

As  if,  as  Gothland's  sage  has  told, 
The  hidden  life,  the  man  within, 

Dissevered  from  its  frame  and  mould, 
By  mortal  eye  were  seen. 

Was  it  the  lifting  of  that  eye, 

The  waving  of  that  pictured  hand? 

Loose  as  a  cloud- wreath  on  the  sky, 
I  saw  the  walls  expand. 

Thenarrowropm  had  vanished, — space, 
Broad,  luminous,  remained  alone, 

Through  which  all  hues  and  shapes  of 

grace 
And  beauty  looked  or  shone. 

Around  the  mighty  master  came 

The  marvelswhich  hispencilwrought, 

Those  miracles  of  power  whose  fame 
Is  wide  as  human  thought. 

There,  drpoped  thy  more  than  mortal 
face., 

O  Mother,  beautiful  and  mild  ! 
Enfolding  in  one  dear  embrace 

Thy  Saviour  and  thy  Child  ! 

Th,e  rapt  brow  of  the  De.sert  John  ; 

The  awful  glory  of  that  day 
"When  all  the  Father's  brightness  shone 

^rough  manhood's  veil  of  clay. 


And,  midst  gray  prophet  forms,  and  wild 
Dark  visions  of  the  days  of  old, 

How  sweetly  woman's  beauty  smiled 
Through  locks  of  brown  and  gold  ! 

There  Fornarina's  fair  young  face 
Once  more  upon  her  lover  shone, 

Whose  model  of  an  angel's  grace 
He  borrowed  from  her  own. 

Slow  passed  that  vision  from  my  view, 
But  not  the  lesson  which  it  taught ; 

The  soft,  calm  shadows  which  it  threw 
Still  rested  on  my  thought : 

The  truth,  that  painter,  bard,  and  sage, 
Even  in  Earth's  cold  and  changeful 
clime, 

Plant  for  their  deathless  heritage 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  time. 

We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 
Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made, 

And  fill  our  Future's  atmosphere 
With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

The  tissue  of  the  Life  to  be 
We  weave  with  colors  all  our  own, 

And  in  the  field  of  Destiny 
We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 

Still  shall  the  soul  around  it  call 
The  shadows  which  it  gathered  here, 

And,  painted  on  the  eternal  wall, 
The  Past  shall  reappear. 

Think  ye  the  notes  of  holy  song 
On  Milton's  tuneful  ear  have  died? 

Think  ye  that  Raphael's  angel  throng 
Has  vanished  from  his  side? 

O  no  !  —  We  live  our  life  again  : 
Or  warmly  touched,  or  coldly  dim, 

The  pictures  of  the  Past  remain,  — 
Man's  works  shall  follow  him  ! 


LUCY  HOOPER.43 

THEY  tell  me,  Lucy,  thou  art  dead,  — 
That  all  of  thee  we  loved  and  cher 
ished 

Has  with  thy  summer  roses  per 
ished  : 


LUCY  HOOPER. 


163 


And  left,  as  its  young  beauty  fled, 

An  ashen  memory  in  its  stead,  — 
The  twilight  of  a  parted  day 

Whose  fading  light  is  cold  and  vain  ; 
The  heart's  faint  echo  of  a  strain 

Of  low,  sweet  music  passed  away. 
That  true  and  loving  heart,  —  that  gift 

Of  a  mind,  earnest,  clear,  profound, 
Bestowing,  with  a  glad  unthrift, 

Its  sunny  light  on  all  around, 
Affinities  which  only  could 
Cleave  to  the  pure,  the  true,  and  good ; 

And  sympathies  which  found  no  rest, 

Save  with  the  loveliest  and  best. 
Of   them  —  of    thee  —  remains    there 
naught 

But  sorrow  in  the  mourner's  breast  ? — 
A  shadow  in  the  land  of  thought  ? 
No!  —  Even  my  weak  and  trembling 
faith 

Can  lift  for  thee  the  veil  which  doubt 

And  human  fear  have  drawn  about 
\he  all-awaiting  scene  of  death. 

liven  as  thou  wast  I  see  thee  still ; 
And,  save  the  absence  of  all  ill 
And  pain  and  weariness,  which  here 
Summoned  the  sigh  or  wrung  the  tear, 
The  same  as  when,  two  summers  back, 
Beside  our  childhood's  Merrimack, 
1  saw  thy  dark  eye  wander  o'er 
Stream,  sunny  upland,  rocky  shore, 
And  heard  thy  low,  soft  voice  alone 
Midst  lapse  of  waters,  and  the  tone 
Of  pine-leaves  by  the  west-wind  blown, 
There  's  not  a  charm  of  soul  or  brow,  — 

Of  all  we  knew  and  loved  in  thee, — 
I'ut  lives  in  holier  beauty  now, 

Baptized  in  immortality  ! 
Not  mine  the  sad  and  freezing  dream 

Of  souls  that,  with  theirearthly  mould, 

Cast  off  the  loves  and  joys  of  old,  — 
Unbodied,  —  like  a  pale  moonbeam, 

As  pure,  as  passionless,  and  cold  ; 
Nor  mine  the  hope  of  Indra's  son, 

Of  slumbering  in  oblivion's  rest, 
Life's  myriads  blending  into  one,  — 

In  blank  annihilation  blest  ; 
Dust-atoms  of  the  infinite, — 
Sparks  scattered  from  the  central  light, 
And  winning  back  through  mortal  pain 
Their  old  unconsciousness  again. 
No!  —  I  have  FRIENDS  in  Spirit  Land, — 
Not  shadows  in  a  shadowy  band, 


Not  others,  but  themselves  are  they. 
And  still  I  think  of  them  the  same 
As  when  the  Master's  summons  came  ; 
Their    change,  —  the    holy  morn-light 

breaking 
Upon  the  dream-worn  sleeper,  waking, — 

A  change  from  twilight  into  day. 

They've  laid  thee  midst  the  household 
graves, 

Where  father,  brother,  sister  lie  ; 
Below  thee  sweep  the  dark  blue  waves, 

Above  thee  bends  the  summer  sky. 
Thy  own  loved  church  in  sadness  read 
Her  solemn  ritual  o'er  thy  head. 
And  blessed  and  hallowed  with   her 

prayer 

The  turf  laid  lightly  o'er  thee  there. 
That  church,  whose  rites  and  liturgy, 
Sublime  and  old,  were  truth  to  thee, 
Undoubted  to  thy  bosom  taken, 
As  symbols  of  a  faith  unshaken. 
Even  I,  of  simpler  views,  could  feel 
The  beauty  of  thy  trust  and  zeal ; 
And,  owning  not  thy  creed,  could  see 
How  deep  a  truth  it  seemed  to  thee, 
And  how  thy  fervent  heart  had  thrown 
O'er  all,  a  coloring  of  its  own, 
And  kindled  up,  intense  and  warm, 
A  life  in  every  rite  and  form, 
As,  when  on  Chebar's  banks  of  old, 
The  Hebrew's  gorgeous  vision  rolled, 
A  spirit  filled  the  vast  machine,  — 
A  life  "within  the  wheels"  was  seen. 

Farewell !     A  little  time,  and  we 
Who  knew  thee  well,  and  loved  thee 

here, 
One  after  one  shall  follow  thee 

As  pilgrims  through  the  gate  of  fear, 
Which  opens  on  eternity. 
Yet  shall  we  cherish  not  the  less 

All  that  is  left  our  hearts  meanwhile ; 
The  memory  of  thy  loveliness 

Shall  round  our  weary  pathway  smile, 
Like  moonlight  when  the  sun  has  set,  — 
A  sweet  and  tender  radiance  yet. 
Thoughts  of  thy  clear-eyed  sense   of 

duty, 
Thy  generous    scorn    of  all    things 

wrong,  — 
The  truth,  the   strength,  the   graceful 

beauty 
Which  blended  in  thy  song. 


i64 


MISCELLA  NEOUS. 


All  lovely  things,  by  thee  beloved, 

Shall  whisper  to  our  hearts  of  thee  ; 
These   green    hills,    where   thy   child 
hood  roved,  — 

Yon  river  winding  to  the  sea,  — 
The  sunset  light  of  autumn  eves 

Reflecting  on  the  deep,  still  floods, 
Cloud,    crimson    sky,    and    trembling 
leaves 

Of  rainbow-tinted  woods,  — 
These,  in  our  view,  shall  henceforth  take 
A  tenderer  meaning  for  thy  sake  ; 
And  all  thou  lovedst  of  earth  and  sky, 
Seem  sacred  to  thy  memory. 


CHANNING.4* 

NOT  vainly  did  old  poets  tell, 
Nor  vainly  did  old  genius  paint 

God's  great  and  crowning  miracle,  — 
The  hero  and  the  saint ! 

For  even  in  a  faithless  day 

Can  we  our  sainted  ones  discern  ; 

And  feel,  while  with  them  on  the  way, 
Our  hearts  within  us  burn. 

And  thus  the  common  tongue  and  pen 
Which,    world  -  wide,    echo    CHAN- 
N ING'S  fame, 

As  one  of  Heaven's  anointed  men, 
Have  sanctified  his  name. 

In  vain  shall  Rome  her  portals  bar, 
And  shut  from  him  her  saintly  prize, 

Whom,  in  the  world's  great  calendar, 
All  men  shall  canonize. 

By  Narragansett's  sunny  bay, 

Beneath  his  green  embowering  wood, 

To  me  it  seems  but  yesterday 
Since  at  his  side  I  stood. 

The  slopes  lay  green  with  summer  rains, 
The  western  wind  blew  fresh  and  free, 

And  glimmered  down  the  orchard  lanes 
The  white  surf  of  the  sea. 

With  us  was  one,  who,  calm  and  true, 
Life's  highest  purpose  understood, 

And,  like  his  blessed  Master,  knew 
The  joy  of  doing  good. 


Unlearned,  unknown  to  lettered  fame, 
Yet  on  the  lips  of  England's  poor 

And  toiling  millions  dwelt  his  name, 
With  blessings  evermore. 

Unknown  to  power  or  place,  yet  whera 
The  sun  looks  o'er  the  Carib  sea, 

It  blended  with  the  freeman's  prayer 
And  song  of  jubilee. 

He  told  of  England's  sin  and  wrong,  — 
The  ills  her  suffering  children  know, — 

The  squalor  of  the  city's  throng,  — 
The  green  field's  want  and  woe. 

O'er  Channing's  face  the  tenderness 
Of  sympathetic  sorrow  stole, 

Like  a  still  shadow,  passionless,  — 
The  sorrow  of  the  soul. 

But  when  the  generous  Briton  told 
How  hearts  were   answering  to  his 
own, 

And  Freedom's  rising  murmur  rolled 
Up  to  the  dull-eared  throne, 

I  saw,  methought,  a  glad  surprise 
Thrill  through  that  frail  and  pain- 
worn  frame, 

And,  kindling  in  those  deep,  calm  eyes, 
A  still  and  earnest  flame. 

His  few,  brief  words  were  such  as  move 
The  human  heart,  —  the  Faith-sown 
seeds 

Which  ripen  in  the  soil  of  love 
To  high  heroic  deeds. 

No  bars  of  sect  or  clime  were  felt,  — 
The    Babel   strife    of   tongues    had 
ceased,  — 

And  at  one  common  altar  knelt 
The  Quaker  and  the  priest. 

And  not  in  vain :  with  strength  renewed, 
And  zeal  refreshed,  and  hope  less  dim, 

For  that  brief  meeting,  each  pursued 
The  path  allotted  him. 

How  echoes  yet  each  Western  hill 
And    vale    with    Channing's   dyin# 
word ! 

How  are  the  hearts  of  freemen  still 
By  that  great  warning  stirred  1 


TO   THE  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  B.   STORRS. 


165 


The  stranger  treads  his  native  soil, 
And  pleads,  with  zeal  unfelt  before 

The  honest  right  of  British  toil, 
The  claim  of  England's  poor. 

Before  him  time-wrought  barriers  fall, 
Old  fears  subside,  old  hatreds  melt, 

And,  stretching  o'er  the  sea's  blue  wall, 
The  Saxon  greets  the  Celt. 

The  yeoman  on  the  Scottish  lines, 
The  Sheffield  grinder,  worn  and  grim, 

The  delver  in  the  Cornwall  mines, 
Look  up  with  hope  to  him. 

Swart  smiters  of  the  glowing  steel, 
Dark  feeders  of  the  forge's  flame, 

Pale  watchers  at  the  loom  and  wheel, 
Repeat  his  honored  name. 

And  thus  the  influence  of  that  hour 
Of  converse  on  Rhode  Island's  strand, 

Lives  in  the  calm,  resistless  power 
Which  moves  our  father-land. 

God  blesses  still  the  generous  thought, 
And  still  the  fitting  word  He  speeds, 

And  Truth,  at  his  requiring  taught, 
He  quickens  into  deeds. 

Where  is  the  victory  of  the  grave  ? 

What  dust  upon  the  spirit  lies? 
God  keeps  the  sacred  life  he  gave,  — 

The  prophet  never  dies ! 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF 
CHARLES  B.   STORRS, 

LATE     PRESIDENT     OF    WESTERN     RE 
SERVE   COLLEGE. 

THOU  hast  fallen  in  thine  armor, 

Thou  martyr  of  the  Lord  ! 
With  thy  last  breath   crying, —  "On 
ward  !  " 

And  thy  hand  upon  the  sword. 
The  haughty  heart  derideth, 

And  the  sinful  lip  reviles, 
But  the  blessing  of  the  perishing 

Around  thy  pillow  smiles  1 


When  to  our  cup  of  trembling, 

The  added  drop  is  given, 
And  the  long-suspended  thunder 

Falls  terribly  from  Heaven,  — 
When  a  new  and  fearful  freedom 

Is  proffered  of  the  Lord 
To  the  slow-consuming  Famine,  — 

The  Pestilence  and  Sword  !  — 

When  the  refuges  of  Falsehood 

Shall  be  swept  away  in  wrath, 
And  the  temple  shall  be  shaken, 

With  its  idol,  to  the  earth,  — 
Shall  not  thy  words  of  warning 

Be  all  remembered  then  ? 
And  thy  now  unheeded  message 

Burn  in  the  hearts  of  men? 

Oppression's  hand  may  scatter 

Its  nettles  on  thy  tomb, 
And  even  Christian  bosoms 

Deny  thy  memory  room  ; 
For  lying  lips  shall  torture 

Thy  mercy  into  crime, 
And  the  slanderer  shall  flourish 

As  the  bay-tree  for  a  time. 

But  where  the  south-wind  lingers 

On  Carolina's  pines, 
Or  falls  the  careless  sunbeam 

Down  Georgia's  golden  mines,  — 
Where  now  beneath  his  burthen 

The  toiling  slave  is  driven,  — 
Where  now  a  tyrant's  mockery 

Is  offered  unto  Heaven,  — 

Where  Mammon  hath  its  altars 

Wet  o'er  with  human  blood, 
And  pride  and  lust  debases 

The  workmanship  of  God,  — 
There  shall  thy  praise  be  spoken, 

Redeemed  from  Falsehood's  ban, 
When  the  fetters  shall  be  broken, 

And  the  slave  shall  be  a  -man  ! 

Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother  ! 

A  thousand  hearts  are  warm,  — 
A  thousand  kindred  bosoms 

Are  baring  to  the  storm. 
What  though  red-handed  Violence 

With  secret  Fraud  combine  ? 
The  wall  of  fire  is  round  us,  — 

Our  Present  Help  was  thine. 


i66 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Lo,  —  the  waking  up  of  nations, 

From  Slavery's  fatal  sleep,  — 
The  murmur  of  a  Universe,  — 

Deep  calling  unto  Deep ! 
Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother  ! 

On  every  wind  of  heaven 
The  onward  cheer  and  summons 

Of  FREEDOM'S  VOICE  is  given  ! 

Glory  to  God  forever  ! 

Beyond  the  despot's  will 
The  soul  of  Freedom  liveth 

Imperishable  still. 
The  words  which  thou  hast  uttered 

Are  of  that  soul  a  part, 
And  the  good  seed  thou  hast  scattered 

Is  springing  from  the  heart. 

In  the  evil  days  before  us, 

And  the  trials  yet  to  come,  — 
In  the  shadow  of  the  prison, 

Or  the  cruel  martyrdom, — 
We  will  think  of  thee,  O  brother  ! 

And  thy  sainted  name  shall  be 
In  the  blessing  of  the  captive, 

And  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

1834. 


LINES, 

ON   THE   DEATH    OF   S.    O.    TORREY. 

GONE  before  us,  O  our  brother, 

To  the  spirit-land  ! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Who  shall  offer  youth  and  beauty 

On  the  wasting  shrine 
Of  a  stern  and  lofty  duty, 

With  a  faith  like  thine  ? 

O,  thy  gentle  smile  of  greeting 

Who  again  shall  see  ? 
Who  amidst  the  solemn  meeting 

Gaze  again  on  thee?  — 
Who,  when  peril  gathers  o'er  us, 

Wear  so  calm  a  brow  ? 
Who,  with  evil  men  before  us, 

So  serene  as  thou  ? 

Early  hath  the  spoiler  found  thee, 
Brother  of  our  love  ! 


Autumn's  faded  earth  around  thee, 

And  its  storms  above  ! 
Evermore  that  turf  lie  lightly, 

And,  with  future  showers, 
O'er  thy  slumbers  fresh  and  brightly 

Blow  the  summer  flowers  ! 

In  the  locks  thy  forehead  gracing, 

Not  a  silvery  streak  ; 
Nor  a  line  of  sorrow's  tracing 

On  thy  fair  young  cheek  ; 
Eyes  of  light  and  lips  of  roses, 

'Such  as  Hylas  wore,  — 
Over  all  that  curtain  closes, 

Which  shall  rise  no  more  ! 

Will  the  vigil  Love  is  keeping 

Round  that  grave  of  thine, 
Mournfully,  like  Jazer  weeping 

Over  Sibmah's  vine,45  — 
Will  the  pleasant  memories,  swelling 

Gentle  hearts,  of  thee, 
In  the  spirit's  distant  dwelling 

All  unheeded  be? 

If  the  spirit  ever  gazes, 

From  its  journey  ings,  back ; 
If  the  immortal  ever  traces 

O'er  its  mortal  track  ; 
Wilt  thou  not,  O  brother,  meet  us 

Sometimes  on  our  way, 
And,  in  hours  of  sadness,  greet  us 

As  a  spirit  may  ? 

Peace  be  with  thee,  O  our  brother, 

In  the  spirit-land  ! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Unto  Truth  and  Freedom  giving 

All  thy  early  powers, 
Be  thy  virtues  with  the  living, 

And  thy  spirit  ours  ! 


A  LAMENT. 

"  The  parted   spirit, 
Knoweth  it  not  our  sorrow  ?    Answereth 

not 
Its  blessing  to  our  tears  ?' 

THE    circle   is  broken, —  one   seat  is 

forsaken,  — 
One  bud  from  the  tree  of  our  friendship 

is  shaken,  — 


DANIEL    WHEELER. 


167 


One  heart  from  among  us  no  longer 

shall  thrill 
With  joy  in  our  gladness,  or  grief  in 

our  ill. 

Weep  !  —  lonely  and  lowly  are  slum 
bering  now 

The  light  of  her  glances,  the  pride  of 
her  brow, 

Weep  !  —  sadly  and  long  shall  we  listen 
in  vain 

To  hear  the  soft  tones  of  her  welcome 
again. 

Give  our  tears  to  the  dead  !  For  hu 
manity's  claim 

From  its  silence  and  darkness  is  ever 
the  same  ; 

The  hope  of  that  World  whose  exist 
ence  is  bliss 

May  not  stifle  the  tears  of  the  mourners 
of  this. 

For,  oh  !  if  one  glance  the  freed  spirit 

can  throw 
On  the  scene  of  its  troubled  probation 

below, 
Than   the   pride    of   the   marble,    the 

pomp  of  the  dead, 
To  that  glance  will  be  dearer  the  tears 

which  we  shed. 

O,  who  can  forget  the  mild  light  of  her 

smile, 
Over  lips  moved  with  music  and  feeling 

the  while  — 
The    eye's    deep  enchantment,   dark, 

dream-like,  and  clear, 
In  the  glow  of  its  gladness,  the  shade 

of  its  tear. 

And  the  charm  of  her  features,  while 

over  the  whole 
Played  the  hues  of  the  heart  and  the 

sunshine  of  soul,  — 
And  the  tones   of  her  voice,  like  the 

music  which  seems 
Murmured    low   in    our    ears   by  the 

Angel  of  dreams  ! 

But  holier  and  dearer  our  memories 
hold 

Those  treasures  of  feeling,  more  pre 
cious  than  gold,  — 


The  love  and  the  kindness  and  pity 

which  gave 
Fresh   flowers    for    the    bridal,   green 

wreaths  for  the  grave ! 

The  heart  ever  open  to  Charity's  claim, 
Unmoved  from  its  purpose  by  censure 

and  blame, 
While  vainly  alike  on  her  eye  and  her 

ear 
Fell  the   scorn   of  the  heartless,   the 

jesting  and  jeer. 

How  true  to  our  hearts  was  that  beau 
tiful  sleeper  ! 

With  smiles  for  the  joyful,  with  tears 
for  the  weeper  !  — 

Yet,  evermore  prompt,  whether  mourn 
ful  or  gay, 

With  warnings  in  love  to  the  passing 
astray. 

For,  though  spotless  herself,  she  could 
sorrow  for  them 

Who  sullied  with  evil  the  spirit's  pure 
gem  ; 

And  a  sigh  or  a  tear  could  the  erring 
reprove, 

And  the  sting  of  reproof  was  still  tem 
pered  by  love. 

As  a  cloud  of  the  sunset,  slow  melting 

in   heaven, 
As  a  star  that  is  lost  when  the  daylight 

is  given, 
As  a  glad  dream   of  slumber,   which 

wakens  in  bliss, 
She  hath  passed  to  the  world  of  the 

holy  from  this. 


DANIEL  WHEELER. 

[DANIEL  WHEELER,  a  minister  of  the 
Society  of  Friends,  and  who  had  labored 
in  the  cause  of  his  Divine  Master  !n  Great 
Britain,  Russia,  and  the  islands  of  the  Pa 
cific,  died  in  New  York  in  the  spring  of 
1840,  while  on  a  religious  visit  to  this  coun 
try.] 

O  DEARLY  loved ! 

And  worthy  of  our  love  !  —  No  more 
Thy  aged  form  shall  rise  before 
The  hushed  and  waiting  worshipper, 


i68 


MIS  CELL  A  NEO  US. 


In  meek  obedience  utterance  giving 
To  words  of  truth,  so  fresh  and  living, 
That,  even  to  the  inward  sense, 
They  bore  unquestioned  evidence 
Of  an  anointed  Messenger  ! 
Or,  bowing  down  thy  silver  hair 
In  reverent  awfulness  of  prayer,  — 

The  world,  its  time  and  sense,  shut 

out,  — 

The  brightness  of  Faith's  holy  trance 
Gathered  upon  thy  countenance, 

As  if  each  lingering  cloud  of  doubt, — 
The  cold,  dark  shadows  resting  here 
In  Time's  unluminous  atmosphere,  — 

Were  lifted  by  an  angel's  hand, 
And  through  them  on  thy  spiritual  eye 
Shone  down  the  blessedness  on  high, 

The  glory  of  the  Better  Land  ! 

The  oak  has  fallen  I 
While,  meet  for  no  good  work,  the  vine 
May  yet  its  worthless  branches  twine. 
Who  knoweth  not  that  with  thee  fell 
A  great  man  in  our  Israel  ? 
Fallen,  while  thy  loins  were  girded  still, 

Thy  feet  with  Zion's  dews  still  wet, 

And  in  thy  hand  retaining  yet 
The  pilgrim's  staff  and  scallop-shell ! 
Unharmed  and  safe,  where,  wild  and 
free, 

Across  the  Neva's  cold  morass 
The  breezes  from  the  Frozen  Sea 

With  winter's  arrowy  keenness  pass ; 
Or  where  the  unwarning  tropic  gale 
Smote  to  the  waves  thy  tattered  sail, 
Or  where  the  noon-hour's  fervid  heat 
Against  Tahiti's  mountains  beat  ; 

The  same  mysterious   Hand  which 
gave 

Deliverance  upon  land  and  wave, 
Tempered  for  thee   the  blasts  which 
blew 

Ladaga's  frozen  surface  o'er, 
And  blessed  for  thee  the  baleful  dew 

Of  evening  upon  Eimeo's  shore, 
Beneath  this  sunny  heaven  of  ours, 
Midst  our  soft  airs  and  opening  flowers 

Hath  given  thee  a  grave  ! 

His  will  be  done, 
Who  seeth  not  as  man,  whose  way 

Is  not  as  ours  !  —  'T  is  well  with  thee ! 
Nor  anxious  doubt  nor  dark  dismay 
Disquieted  thy  closing  day, 


But,  evermore,  thy  soul  could  say, 

"  My  Father  careth  still  for  me  !  " 
Called  from   thy  hearth  and  home,  — 
from  her, 

The  last  bud  on  thy  household  tree, 
The  last  dear  one  to  minister 

In  duty  and  in  love  to  thee, 
From  all  which  nature  holdeth  dear, 

Feeble   with  years  and   worn   with 
pain, 

To  seek  our  distant  land  again, 
Bound  in  the  spirit,  yet  unknowing 

The  things  which  should  befall  thee 
here, 

Whether  for  labor  or  for  death, 
In  childlike  trust  serenely  going 

To  that  last  trial  of  thy  iaith  ! 

O,  far  away, 
Where  never  shines  our  Northern  star 

On   that   dark  waste  which   Balboa 

saw 
From   Darien's   mountains  stretching 

far, 
So  strange,   heaven-broad,   and  lone, 

that  there, 
With  forehead  to  its  damp  wind  bare, 

He  bent  his  mailed  knee  in  awe  ; 
In  many  an  isle  whose  coral  feet 
The  surges  of  that  ocean  beat, 
In  thy  palm  shadows,  Oahu, 

And  Honolulu's  silver  bay, 
Amidst  O.wyhee's  hills  of  blue, 

And  taro-plains  of  Tooboonai, 
Are  gentle  hearts,  which  long  shall  be 
Sad  as  our  own  at  thought  of  thee,  — 
Worn  sowers  of  Truth's  holy  seed, 
Whose  souls  in  weariness  and  need 

Were  strengthened  and  refreshed  by 

thine. 
For  blessed  by  our  Father's  hand 

Was  thy  deep  love  and  tender  care, 

Thy  ministry  and  fervent  prayer,  — 
Grateful  as  Eschol's  clustered  vine 
To  Israel  in  a  weary  land  ! 

And  they  who  drew 
By  thousands  round  thee,  in  the  hour 
Of  prayerful    waiting,   hushed    and 

deep, 

That  He  who  bade  the  islands  keep 
Silence  before  him,  might  renew 
Their  strength  with  his  unslumber- 
i»g  power, 


DANIEL   NEALL. 


169 


They  too  shall  mourn  that  thou  art 
gone, 

That  nevermore  thy  aged  lip 
Shall  soothe  the  weak,  the  erring  warn, 
Of  those  who  first,  rejoicing,  heard 
Through   thee   the   Gospel's    glorious 
word,  — 

Seals  of  thy  true  apostleship. 
And,  if  the  brightest  diadem, 

Whose  gems  of  glory  purely  burn 

Around  the  ransomed  ones  in  bliss, 
Be  evermore  reservedrfor  them 

Who  here,  through  toil  and  sorrow, 
turn 

Many  to  righteousness,  — 
May  we  not  think  of  thee  as  wearing 
That  star-like  crown  of  light,  and  bear 
ing, 
Amidst   Heaven's  white   and  blissful 

band, 

The  fadeless  palm-branch  in  thy  hand  ; 
And  joining  with  a  seraph's  tongue 
In  that  new  song  the  elders  sung, 
Ascribing  to  its  blessed  Giver 
Thanksgiving,  love,  and  praise  forever  ! 

Farewell  ! 

And  though  the  ways  of  Zion  mourn 
When  her  strong  ones  are  called  away, 
Who  like  thyself  have  calmly  borne 
The  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 
Yet  He  who  slumbereth  not  nor  sleep- 

eth 

His  ancient  watch  around  us  keepeth  ; 
Still,  sent  from  his  creating  hand, 
New  witnesses  for  Truth  shall  stand,  — 
New  instruments  to  sound  abroad 
The  Gospel  of  a  risen  Lord  ; 

To  gather  to  the  fold  once  more 
The  desolate  and  gone  astray, 
The  scattered  of  a  cloudy  day, 

And  Zion's  broken  walls  restore  ; 
And,  through  the  travail  and  the  toil 

Of  true  obedience,  minister 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  the  oil 

Of  joy  for  mourning,  unto  her  ! 
So  shall  her  holy  bounds  increase 
With  walls  of  praise  and  gates  of  peace  : 
So  shall  the  Vine,  which  martyr  tears 
And  blood  sustained  in  other  years, 

With  fresher  life  be  clothed  upon  ; 
And  to  the  world  in  beauty  show 
Like  the  rose-plant  of  Jericho, 

And  glorious  as  Lebanon  ! 


DANIEL  NEALL. 


FRIEND  of  the  Slave,  and  yet  the  friend 

of  all  : 
Lover  of  peace,   yet  ever    foremost 

when 

The  need  of  battling  Freedom  called 
for  men 

To  plant  the  banner  on  the  outer  wall ; 

Gentle  and  kindly,  ever  at  distress 

Melted  to  more  than  woman's  tender 
ness, 

Yet  firm  and  steadfast,  at  his  duty's  post 

Fronting   the  violence  of  a  maddened 
host, 

Like  some  gray  rock  from  which  the 
waves  are  tossed  ! 

Knowing  his  deeds  of  love,  men  ques 
tioned  not 

The  faith  of  one  whose  walk  and  word 
were  right,  — 

Who   tranquilly  in   Life's  great  task- 
field  wrought, 

And,  side  by  side  with  evil,  scarcely 

caught 

A    stain   upon   his    pilgrim   garb   of 
white  : 

Prompt  to  redress  another's  wrong,  his 
own 

Leaving  to  Time  and  Truth  and  Peni 
tence  alone. 


Such  was  our  friend.     Formed  on  the 

good  old  plan, 
A  true  and  brave  and  downright  honest 

man  !  — 

He  blew  no  trumpet  in  the  market-place, 
Nor  in  the  church  with  hypocritic- face 
Supplied  with  cant  the  lack  of  Christian 

grace  ; 
Loathincc  pretence,  he  did  with  cheerful 

will 
What  others  talked  of  while  their  hands 

were  still  : 
And,  while  "  Lord,  Lord  !  "  the  pious 

tyrants  cried, 

Who,  in  the  poor,  their  Master  crucified, 
His  daily  prayer,  far  better  understood 
In  acts  than  words,  was  simply  DOING 

GOOD. 
So  calm,  so  constant  was  his  rectitude, 


170 


MISCEL  L  A  NE  0  US. 


That,  by  his  loss   alone  we  know  its 

worth, 
And  feel  how  true  a  man  has  walked 

with  us  on  earth. 
6/7*  6th  month,  1846. 


TO     MY      FRIEND      ON     THE 
DEATH   OF   HIS   SISTER.^ 

THINE  is  a  grief,  the  depth  of  which 

another 

May  never  know ; 
Yet,   o'er  the  waters,  O   my  stricken 

brother  ! 
To  thee  I  go. 

I  lean  my  heart  unto  thee,  sadly  folding 

Thy  hand  in  mine  ; 

With  even  the  weakness   of  my  soul 
upholding 

The  strength  of  thine. 

I  never  knew,  like  thee,  the  dear  de 
parted  ; 
I  stood  not  by 

When,  in  calm  trust,  the  pure  and  tran 
quil-hearted 
Lay  down  to  die. 

And  on  thy  ears  my  words  of  weak 

condoling 
Must  vainly  fall : 
The  funeral  bell  which  in  thy  heart  is 

tolling, 
Sounds  over  all ! 

I  will  not  mock  thee  with  the  poor 

world's  common 

And  heartless  phrase, 

Nor  wrong  the   memory  of  a  sainted 

woman 
With  idle  praise. 

With  silence  only  as  their  benediction, 

God's  angels  come 

Where,  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  afflic 
tion, 

The  soul  sits  dumb  ! 

Yet,  would  I  say  what  thy  own  heart 

approveth  : 
Our  Father's  will, 


Calling  to  Him  the  dear  one  whom  He 

loveth, 
Is  mercy  still. 

Not  upon  thee  or  thine  the  solemn  angel 

Hath  evil  wrought : 
Her  funeral  anthem  is  a  glad  evangel,  — 

The  good  die  not ! 

God  calls  our  loved  ones,  but  we  lose 

not  wholly 

_  What  t^e  hath  given  ; 
They  live   on    earth,    in  thought  and 

deed,  as  truly 
As  in  his  heaven. 

And  she  is  with  thee ;  in  thy  path  of 
trial 

She  walketh  yet  ; 
Still  with  the  baptism  of  thy  self-denial 

Her  locks  are  wet. 

Up,  then,  my  brother  !     Lo,  the  fields 

of  harvest 
Lie  white  in  view  ! 
She  lives  and  loves  thee,  and  the  God 

thou  servest 
To  both  is  true. 

Thrust  in  thy  sickle  !  —  England's  toil- 
worn  peasants 
Thy  call  abide  ; 
And  she  thou  mourn'st,  a  pure  and  holy 

presence, 
Shall  glean  beside ! 


GONE. 

ANOTHER  hand  is  beckoning  us, 

Another  call  is  given  ; 
And  glows  once  more  with  Angel-steps 

The  path  which  reaches  Heaven. 

Our  young  and  gentle  friend,  whose  smile 
Made  brighter  summer  hours, 

Amid  the  frosts  of  autumn  time 
Has  left  us  with  the  flowers. 

No  paling  of  the  cheek  of  bloom 

Forewarned  us  of  decay  ; 
No  shadow  from  the  Silent  Land 

Fell  round  our  sister's  way. 


THE   LAKE-SIDE. 


171 


The  light  of  her  young  life  went  down, 

As  sinks  behind  the  hill 
The  glory  of  a  setting  star,  — 

Clear,  suddenly,  and  still. 

As  pure  and  sweet,  her  fair  brow  seemed 

Eternal  as  the  sky ; 

And  like   the  brook's  low  song,   her 
voice,  — 

A  sound  which  could  not  die. 

And  half  we  deemed  she  needed  not 
The  changing  of  her  sphere, 

To  give  to  Heaven  a  Shining  One, 
Who  walked  an  Angel  here. 

The  blessing  of  her  quiet  life 

Fell  on  us  like  the  dew  ; 
And  good  thoughts,  where  her  footsteps 
pressed 

Like  fairy  blossoms  grew. 

Sweet  promptings  unto  kindest  deeds 

Were  in  her  very  look  ; 
We  read  her  face,  as  one  who  reads 

A  true  and  holy  book : 

The  measure  of  a  blessed  hymn, 
To  which  our  hearts  could  move ; 

The  breathing  of  an  inward  psalm ; 
A  canticle  of  love. 

We  miss  her  in  the  place  of  prayer, 
And  by  the  hearth-fire's  light ; 

We  pause  beside  her  door  to  hear 
Once  more  her  sweet  "  Good-night !  " 

There  seems  a  shadow  on  the  day, 
Her  smile, no  longer  cheers  ; 

A  dimness  on  the  stars  of  night, 
Like  eyes  that  look  through  tears. 

Alone  unto  our  Father's  will 
One  thought  hath  reconciled  ; 

That  He  whose  love  exceedeth  ours 
Hath  taken  home  his  child. 

Fold  her,  O  Father  !  in  thine  arms, 

And  let  her  henceforth  be 
A  messenger  of  love  between 

Our  human  hearts  and  thee. 


Still  let  her  mild  rebuking  stand 

Between  us  and  the  wrong, 
And  her  dear  memory  serve  to  make 

Our  faith  in  Goodness  strong. 

And  grant  that  she  who,  trembling,  here 

Distrusted  all  her  powers, 
May  welcome  to  her  holier  home 

The  well-beloved  of  ours. 


THE  LAKE-SIDE. 

THE  shadows  round  the  inland  sea 

Are  deepening  into  night ; 
Slow  up  the  slopes  of  Ossipee 

They  chase  the  lessening  light. 
Tired  of  the  long  day's  blinding  heat, 

I  rest  my  languid  eye, 
Lake  of  the  Hills !    where,  cool  and 
sweet, 

Thy  sunset  waters  lie  ! 

Along  the  sky,  in  wavy  lines, 

O'er  isle  and  reach  and  bay, 
Green-belted  with  eternal  pines, 

The  mountains  stretch  away. 
Below,  the  maple  masses  sleep 

Where  shore  with  water  blends, 
While  midway  on  the  tranquil  deep 

The  evening  light  descends. 

So  seemed  it  when  yon  hill's  red  crown, 

Of  old,  the  Indian  trod, 
And,  through   the   sunset  air,  looked 
down 

Upon  the  Smile  of  God.4?" 
To  him  of  light  and  shade  the  laws 

No  forest  sceptic  taught ; 
Their  living  and  eternal  Cause 

His  truer  instinct  sought. 

He  saw  these  mountains  in  the  light 

Which  now  across  them  shines  ; 
This  lake,  in  summer  sunset  bright, 

Walled  round  with  sombering  pines. 
God  near  him  seemed  ;  from  earth  and 
skies 

His  loving  voice  he  heard, 
As,  face  to  face,  in  Paradise, 

Man  stood  before  the  Lord. 


I72 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Thanks,  O  our  Father  !  that,  like  him, 

Thy  tender  love  I  see, 
In  radiant  hill  and  woodland  dim, 

And  tinted  sunset  sea. 
For  not  in  mockery  dost  thou  fill 

Our  earth  with  light  and  grace  ; 
Thou  hid'st  no  dark  and  cruel  will 

Behind  thy  smiling  face  ! 


THE   HILL- TOP. 

THE  burly  driver  at  my  side, 

We  slowly  climbed  the  hill, 
Whose  summit,  in  the  hot  noontide, 

Seemed  rising,  rising  still. 
At  last,  our  short  noon-shadows  hid 

The  top-stone,  bare  and  brown, 
From  whence,  like  Gizeh's  pyramid, 

The  rough  mass  slanted  down. 

I  felt  the  cool  breath  of  the  North  ; 

Between  me  and  the  sun, 
O'er  deep,  still  lake,  and  ridgy  earth, 

I  saw  the  cloud-shades  run. 
Before    me,    stretched    for    glistening 
miles, 

Lay  mountain-girdled  Squam  ; 
Like  green-winged  birds,  the  leafy  isles 

Upon  its  bosom  swam. 

And,  glimmering  through  the  sun-haze 
warm, 

Far  as  the  eye  could  roam, 
Dark  billows  of  an  earthquake  storm 

Beflecked  with  clouds  like  foam, 
Their  vales  in  misty  shadow  deep, 

Their  rugged  peaks  in  shine, 
I  saw  the  mountain  ranges  sweep 

The  horizon's  northern  line. 

There  towered  Chocorua's  peak ;  and 

west, 

Moosehillock's  woods  were  seen, 
With   many  a   nameless   slide-scarred 
j  crest 

'      And  pine-dark  gorge  between. 
Beyond  them,  like  a  sun-rimmed  cloud, 

The  great  Notch  mountains  shone, 
Watched  over  by  the  solemn-browed 
And  awful  face  of  stone  ! 


"  A  good  look-off !  "  the  driver  spake  : 

"  About  this  time,  last  year, 
I  drove  a  party  to  the  Lake, 

And  stopped,  at  evening,  here. 
'Twas  duskish  down  below  ;  but  all 

These  hills  stood  in  the  sun, 
Till,  dipped  behind  yon  purple  wall, 

He  left  them,  one  by  one. 

"A  lady,  who,  from  Thornton  hill, 

Had  held  her  place  outside, 
And,  as  a  pleasant  woman  will. 

Had  cheered  the  long,  dull  ride, 
Besought  me,  with  so  sweet  a  smile, 

That  — though  I  hate  delays  — 
I  could  not  choose  but  rest  awhile,  — 

(These  women  have  such  ways  !) 

"  On  yonder  mossy  ledge  she  sat, 

Her  sketch  upon  her  knees, 
A  stray  brown  lock  beneath  her  hat 

Unrolling  in  the  breeze  ; 
Her  sweet  face,  in  the  sunset  light 

Upraised  and  glorified,  — 
I  never  saw  a  prettier  sight 

In  all  my  mountain  ride. 

"  As  good  as  fair ;  it  seemed  her  joy 

To  comfort  and  to  give  ; 
My  poor,  sick  wife,  and  cripple  boy, 

Will  bless  her  while  they  live  !  " 
The  tremor  in  the  driver's  tone 

His  manhood  did  not  shame  : 
"I  dare  say,  sir,  you  may  have  known  ^-"' 

He  named  a  well-known  name. 

Then  sank  the  pyramidal  mounds, 

The  blue  lake  fled  away ; 
For  mountain-scope  a  parlor's  bounds, 

A  lighted  hearth  for  day  ! 
From  lonely  years  and  weary  miles 

The  shadows  fell  apart ; 
Kind    voices    cheered,    sweet    human 
smiles 

Shone  warm  into  my  heart. 

We  journeyed  on  ;  but  earth  and  sky 

Had  power  to  charm  no  more  ; 
Still  dreamed  my  inward-turning  eye 

The  dream  of  memory  o'er. 
Ah  !  human  kindness,  human  love,  — 

To  few  who  seek  denied,  — 
Too  late  we  learn  to  prize  above 

The  whole  round  world  beside  ! 


ON  RECEIVING  AN  EAGLE'S  QUILL. 


173 


ON  RECEIVING  AN  EAGLE'S 
QUILL  FROM  LAKE  SUPE 
RIOR. 

ALL  day  the  darkness  and  the  cold 

Upon  my  heart  have  lain, 
Like  shadows  on  the  winter  sky, 

Like  frost  upon  the  pane  ; 

But  now  my  torpid  fancy  wakes, 
And,  on  thy  Eagle's  plume. 

Rides  forth,  like  Sinbad  on  his  bird, 
Or  witch  upon  her  broom  ! 

Below  me  roar  the  rocking  pines, 

Before  me  spreads  the  lake 
Whose  longand solemn-sounding  waves 

Against  the  sunset  break. 

I  hear  the  wild  Rice-Eater  thresh 
The  grain  he  has  not  sown  ; 

I  see,  with  flashing  scythe  of  fire, 
The  prairie  harvest  mown  ! 

I  hear  the  far-off  voyager's  horn ; 

I  see  the  Yankee's  trail,  — 
His  foot  on  every  mountain-pass, 

On  every  stream  his  sail. 

By  forest,  lake,  and  waterfall, 

I  see  his  pedler  show  ; 
The  mighty  mingling  with  the  mean, 

The  lofty  with  the  low. 

He 's  whittling  by  St.  Mary's  Falls, 

Upon  his  loaded  wain  ; 
He 's    measuring     o'er    the    Pictured 
Rocks, 

With  eager  eyes  of  gain. 

I  hear  the  mattock  in  the  mine, 

The  axe-stroke  in  the  dell, 
The  clamor  from  the  Indian  lodge, 

The  Jesuit  chapel  bell ! 

I  see  the  swarthy  trappers  come 
From  Mississippi's  springs ; 

And     war-chiefs    with    their    painted 

brows, 
And  crests  of  eagle  wings. 

Behind  the  scared  squaw's  birch  canoe, 
The  steamer  smokes  and  raves ; 


And  city  lots  are  staked  for  sale 
Above  old  Indian  graves. 

I  hear  the  tread  of  pioneers 

Of  nations  yet  to  be  ; 
The  first  low  wash  of  waves,  where  soon 

Shall  roll  a  human  sea. 

The  rudiments  of  empire  here 

Are  plastic  yet  and  warm  ; 
The  chaos  of  a  mighty  world 

Is  rounding  into  form  ! 

Each  rude  and  jostling  fragment  soon 
Its  fitting  place  shall  find,  — 

The  raw  material  of  a  State, 
Its  muscle  and  its  mind  ! 

And,    westering  still,   the   star  which 
leads 

The  New  World  in  its  train 
Has  tipped  with  fire  the  icy  spears 

Of  many  a  mountain  chain. 

The  snowy  cones  of  Oregon 

Are  kindling  on  its  way  ; 
And  California's  golden  sands 

Gleam  brighter  in  its  ray  ! 

Then  blessings  on  thy  eagle  quill, 
As,  wandering  far  and  wide, 

I  thank  thee  for  this  twilight  dream 
And  Fancy's  airy  ride  ! 

Yet,  welcomer  than  regal  plumes, 
Which  Western  trappers  find, 

Thy  free  and  pleasant  thoughts,  chance 

sown, 
Like  feathers  on  the  wind.   . 

Thy  symbol  be  the  mountain-bird, 
Whose  glistening  quill  I  hold  ; 

Thy  home  the  ample  air  of  hope, 
And  memory's  sunset  gold  ! 

In  thee,  let  joy  with  duty  join, 
And  strength  unite  with  love, 

The  eagle's  pinions  folding  round 
The  warm  heart  of  the  dove  ! 

So,  when  in  darkness  sleeps  the  vale 
Where  still  the  blind  bird  clings, 

The  sunshine  of  the  upper  sky 
Shall  glitter  on  thy  wings  ! 


174 


MIS  CELL  A  NEOUS. 


MEMORIES. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  and  happy  girl, 

With  step  as  light  as  summer  air, 
Eyes  glad  with   smiles,    and  brow  of 

pearl, 
Shadowed  by  many  a  careless  curl 

Of unconfined  and  flowing  hair  ; 
A  seeming  child  in  everything, 

Save   thoughtful  brow  and  ripening 

charms, 
As  Nature  wears  the  smile  of  Spring 

When  sinking  into  Summer's  arms. 

A  mind  rejoicing  in  the  light 

Which   melted  through  its  graceful 

bower, 

Leaf  after  leaf,  dew-moist  and  bright, 
And  stainless  in  its  holy  white, 

Unfolding  like  a  morning  flower  : 
A  heart,  which,  like  a  fine-toned  lute, 

With  every  breath  of  feeling  woke, 
And,  even  when  the  tongue  was  mute, 

From  eye  and  lip  in  music  spoke. 

How  thrills  once  more  the  lengthening 
chain 

Of  memory,  at  the  thought  of  thee  ! 
Old  hopes  which  long  in  dust  have  lain 
Old  dreams,  come  thronging  back  again, 

And  boyhood  lives  again  in  me  ; 
I  feel  its  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

Its  fulness  of  the  heart  is  mine, 
As  when  I  leaned  to  hear  thee  speak, 

Or  raised  my  doubtful  eye  to  thine. 

I  hear  again  thy  low  replies, 

I  feel  thy  arm  within  my  own, 
And  timidly  again  uprise 
The  fringed  lids  of  hazel  eyes, 

With  soft  brown  tresses  overblown. 
Ah  !  memories  of  sweet  summer  eves, 

Of  moonlit  wave  and  willowy  way, 
Of  stars  and  flowers,  and  dewy  leaves, 

And  smiles  and  tones  more  dear  than 
they  ! 

Ere  this,  thy  quiet  eye  hath  smiled 
My  picture  of  thy  youth  to  see, 

When,  half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 

Thy  very  artlessness  beguiled, 

And  folly's  self  seemed  wise  in  thee  ; 

I  too  can  smile,  when  o'er  that  hour 
The    lights    of    memory    backward 
stream, 


Yet  feel  the  while  that  manhood's  power 
Is  vainer  than  my  boyhood's  dream. 

Years   have   passed  on,  and  left  their 

trace 

Of  graver  care  and  deeper  thought ; 
And  unto  me  the  calm,  cold  face 
Of  manhood,  and  to  thee  the  grace 

Of  woman's  pensive  beauty  brought. 
More  wide,  perchance,  for  blame  than 

praise, 
The  school-boy's  humble  name  has 

flown  ; 

Thine,  in  the  green  and  quiet  ways 
Of  unobtrusive  goodness  known. 

And  wider  yet  in  thought  and  deed 

Diverge  our  pathways,  one  in  youth  ; 
Thine  the  Genevan's  sternest  creed, 
While  answers  to  my  spirit's  need 

The  Derby  dalesman's  simple  truth. 
For  thee,  the  priestly  rite  and  prayer, 

And  holy  day,  and  solemn  psalm  ; 
For  me,  the  silent  reverence  where 

My  brethren  gather,  slow  and  calm. 

Yet  hath  thy  spirit  left  on  me 

An  impress  Time  has  worn  not  out, 
And  something  of  myself  in  thee, 
A  shadow  from  the  past,  I  see, 

Lingering,  even  yet,  thy  way  about ; 
Not  wholly  can  the  heart  unlearn 

That  lesson  of  its  better  hours, 
Not  yet  has  Time's  dull  footstep  worn 

To  common  dust  that  path  of  flowers. 

Thus,  while  at  times  before  our  eyes 

The  shadows  melt,  and  fall  apart, 
And,  smiling  through  them,  round  us 

lies 
The  warm  light  of  our  morning  skies, — 

The  Indian  Summer  of  the  heart ! — • 
In  secret  sympathies  of  mind, 

In  founts  of  feeling  which  retain 
Their  pure,  fresh  flow,  we  yet  may  find 

Our  early  dreams  not  wholly  vain  ! 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  MARK.« 

THE  day  is  closing  dark  and  cold, 
With  roaringblast  and  sleety  showers; 

And  through  the  dusk  the  lilacs  wear 
The  bloom  of  snow,  instead  of  flowers. 


THE    WELL   OF  LOCH  MA  REE. 


175 


I  turn  me  from  the  gloom  without, 
To  ponder  o'er  a  tale  of  old, 

A  legend  of  the  age  of  Faith, 

By  dreaming  monk  or  abbess  told. 

On  Tintoretto's  canvas  lives 
That  fancy  of  a  loving  heart, 

In  graceful  lines  and  shapes  of  power, 
And  hues  immortal  as  his  art. 

In  Provence  (so  the  story  runs) 
There  lived  a  lord,  to  whom,  as  slave, 

A  peasant-boy  of  tender  years 

The  chance  of  trade  or  conquest  gave. 

Forth-looking  from  the  castle  tower, 
Beyond  the  hills  with  almonds  dark, 

The  straining  eye  could  scarce  discern 
The  chapel  of  the  good  St.  Mark. 

And  there,  when  bitter  word  or  fare 
The  service  of  the  youth  repaid, 

By  stealth,  before  that  holy  shrine, 
For  grace  to  bear  his  wrong,  he  prayed. 

The  steed  stamped  at  the  castle  gate, 
The  boar-hunt  sounded  on  the  hill ; 

Why  stayed  the  Baron  from  the  chase, 
With  looks  so  stern,  and  words  so  ill? 

"  Go,  bind  yon  slave  !  and  let  him  learn, 
By  scath  of  fire  and  strain  of  cord, 

How  ill  they  speed  who  give  dead  saints 
The  homage  due  their  living  lord  !  " 

They  bound  him  on  the  fearful  rack, 
When,  through  the  dungeon's  vaulted 
dark, 

He  saw  the  light  of  shining  robes, 
And  knew  the  face  of  good  St.  Mark. 

Then  sank  the  iron  rack  apart, 

The  cords  released  their  cruel  clasp, 

The  pincers,  with  their  teeth  of  fire, 
Fell  broken  from  the  torturer's  grasp. 

And  lo  !  before  the  Youth  and  Saint, 
Barred  door  and  wall  of  stone  gave 
way; 

And  up  from  bondage  and  the  night 
They  passed  to  freedom  and  the  day  ! 

O  dreaming  monk  !  thy  tale  is  true  ;  — 
O  painter  !  true  thy  pencil's  art ; 


In  tones  of  hope  and  prophecy, 
Ye  whisper  to  my  listening  heart ! 

Unheard  no  burdened  heart's  appeal 
Moans  up  to  God's  inclining  ear  ; 

Unheeded  by  his  tender  eye, 

Falls  to  the  cailh  no  sufferer's  tear. 

For  still  the  Lord  alone  is  God  ! 

The  pomp  and  power  of  tyrant  man 
Are  scattered  at  his  lightest  breath, 

Like    chaff   before    the   winnower's 
fan. 

Not  always  shall  the  slave  uplift 
His  heavy  hands  to  Heaven  in  vain. 

God's  angel,  like  the  good  St.  Mark, 
Comes  shining  down  to    break    his 
chain  ! 

O  weary  ones  !  ye  may  not  see 
Your  helpers  in  their  downward  flight ; 

Nor  hear  the  sound  of  silver  wings 
Slow  beating  through   the   hush  of 
night  ! 

But  not  the  less  gray  Dothan  shone, 
With    sunbright    watchers    bending 
low, 

That  Fear's  dim  eye  beheld  alone 
The  spear-heads  of  the  Syrian  foe. 

There  are,  who,  like  the  Seer  of  old, 
Can  see  the  helpers  God  has  sent, 

And  how  life's  rugged  mountain-side 
Is  white  with  many  an  angel  tent  ! 

They  hear  the  heralds  whom  our  Lord 
Sends  down  his  pathway  to  prepare  ; 

And  light,  from  others  hidden,  shines 
On  their  high  place  of  faith  and  prayer. 

Let  such,  for  earth's  despairing  ones, 

Hopeless,  yet  longing  to  be  free, 
Breathe    once     again    the    Prophet's 

prayer : 

"  Lord,  ope  their  eyes,  that  they  may 
see  ! " 


THE  WELL  OF  LOCH  MAREE.*> 

CALM  on  the  breast  of  Loch  Maree 
A  little  isle  reposes  ; 


i76 

A  shadow  woven  of  the  oak 
And  willow  o'er  it  closes. 

Within,  a  Druid's  mound  is  seenK 
Set  round  with  stony  warders  ; 

A  fountain,  gushing  through  the  turf, 
Flows  o'er  its  grassy  borders. 

And  whoso  bathes  therein  his  brow, 
With  care  or  madness  burning, 

Feels  once  again  his  healthful  thought 
And  sense  of  peace  returning. 

O  restless  heart  and  fevered  brain, 

Unquiet  and  unstable, 
That  holy  well  of  Loch  Maree 

Is  more  than  idle  fable  1 

Life's  changes  vex,  its  discords  stun, 
Its  glaring  sunshine  blindeth, 

And  blest  is  he  who  on  his  way 
That  fount  of  healing  findeth  1 

The  shadows  of  a  humbled  will 
And  contrite  heart  are  o'er  it ; 

Go    read    its    legend  —  "  TRUST    IN 

GOD  "  — 
On  Faith's  white  stones  before  it. 


MIS  CELL  A  NEOUS. 


TO  MY  SISTER; 

WITH    A    COPY    OF     "  SUPERNATURAL- 
ISM   OF   NEW  ENGLAND." 

DEAR  SISTER!  —  while  the  wise  and 

sage 

Turn  coldly  from  my  playful  page, 
And  count  it  strange  that  ripened  age 

Should  stoop  to  boyhood's  folly  ; 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  judge  aright 
Of  all  which  makes  the  heart  more  light, 
Or  lends  one  star-gleam  to  the  night 

Of  clouded  Melancholy. 

Away  with  weary  cares  and  themes  !  — 
Swing  wide  the  moonlit  gate  of  dreams  ! 
Leave  free  once  more  the  land  which 
teems 

With  wonders  and  romances  ! 
Where  thou,  with  clear  discerning  eyes, 
Shalt  rightly  read  the  truth  which  lies 
Beneath  the  quaintly  masking  guise 

Of  wild  and  wizard  fancies. 


Lo  !  once  again  our  feet  we  set 

On  still  green  wood-paths,  twilight  wet, 

By  lonely  brooks,  whose  waters  fret 

The  roots  of  spectral  beeches  ; 
Again  the  hearth-fire  glimmers  o'er 
Home's  whitewashed  wall  and  painted 

floor, 
And  young  eyes  widening  to  the  lore 

Of  faery-folks  and  witches. 

Dear  heart !  —  the  legend  is  not  vain 
Which  lights  that  holy  hearth  again, 
And  calling  back  from  care  and  pain, 

And  death's  funereal  sadness, 
Draws  round  its  old  familiar  blaze 
The  clustering  groups  of  happier  days, 
And  lends  to  sober  manhood's  gaze 

A  glimpse  of  childish  gladness. 

And,  knowing  how  my  life  hath  been 
A  weary  work  of  tongue  and  pen, 
A  long,  harsh  strife  with  strong-willed 
men, 

Thou  wilt  not  chide  my  turning 
To  con,  at  times,  an  idle  rhyme, 
To  pluck  a  flower  from    childhood's 

clime, 
Or  listen,  at  Life's  noonday  chime, 

For  the  sweet  bells  of  Morning  I 


AUTUMN  THOUGHTS. 

FROM     "MARGARET    SMITH'S    JOUR 
NAL.'* 

GONE  hath   the    Spring,   with   all  its 

flowers, 
And  gone  the  Summer's  pomp  and 

show, 

And  Autumn,  in  his  leafless  bowers, 
Is  waiting  for  the  Winter's  snow. 

I  said  to  Earth,  so  cold  and  gray, 
"  An  emblem  of  myself  thou  art"  ; 

"  Not  so,"  the  Earth  did  seem  to  say, 
"  For  Spring  shall  warm  my  frozen 
heart." 

I  soothe  my  wintry  sleep  with  dreams 
Of  warmer  sun  and  softer  rain, 

And  wait  to  hear  the  sound  of  stream* 
And  songs  of  merry  birds  again. 


TO  PIUS  IX. 


But  thou,  from  whom  the  Spring  hath 
gone, 

For  whom  the  flowers  no  longer  blow, 
Who  standest  blighted  and  forlorn, 

Like  Autumn  waiting  for  the  snow  : 

No  hope  is  thine  of  sunnier  hours, 
Thy  Winter  shall  no  more  depart ; 

No  Spring  revive  thy  wasted  flowers, 
Nor  Summer  warm  thy  frozen  heart. 


CALEF   IN  BOSTON. 
1692. 

IN  the  solemn  days  of  old, 
Two  men  met  in  Boston  town, 

One  a  tradesman  frank  and  bold, 
One  a  preacher  of  renown. 

Cried  the  last,  in  bitter  tone,  — 
"  Poisoner  of  the  wells  of  truth  ! 

Satan  s  hireling,  thou  hast  sown 
With  his  tares  the  heart  of  youth  ! " 

Spake  the  simple  tradesman  then,  — 
"  God  be  judge  'twixt  thou  and  I ; 

All  thou  knowest  of  truth  hath  been 
Unto  men  like  thee  a  lie. 

"  Falsehoods  which  we  spurn  to-day 
Were  the  truths  of  long  ago  ; 

Let  the  dead  boughs  fall  away, 
Fresher  shall  the  living  grow. 

"  God  is  good  and  God  is  light, 
In  this  faith  I  rest  secure  ; 

Evil  can  but  serve  the  right, 
Over  all  shall  love  endure. 

"  Of  your  spectral  puppet  play 
I  have  traced  the  cunning  wires  ; 

Come  what  will,  I  needs  must  say, 
God  is  true,  and  ye  are  liars." 

When  the  thought  of  man  is  free, 
Error  fears  its  lightest  tones  ; 

So  the  priest  cried,  "  Sadducee  !  " 
And  the  people  took  up  stones. 

In  the  ancient  burying-ground, 
Side  by  side  the  twain  now  li«,  — 


One  with  humble  grassy  mound, 
One  with  marbles  pale  and  high. 

But  the  Lord  hath  blest  the  seed 

Which  that  tradesman  scattered  then, 

And  the  preacher's  spectral  creed 
Chills  no  more  the  blood  of  men. 

Let  us  trust,  to  one  is  known 
Perfect  love  which  casts  out  fear, 

While  the  other's  joys  atone 
For  the  wrong  he  suffered  here 


TO  PIUS  IX.50 

THE  cannon's  brazen  lips  are  cold  ; 

No  red  shell  blazes  down  the  air  ; 
And  street  and  tower,  and  temple  old, 

Are  silent  as  despair. 

The  Lombard  stands  no  more  at  bay,  — 
Rome's  fresh  young  life  has  bled  in 
vain ; 

The  ravens  scattered  by  the  day 
Come  back  with  night  again. 

Now,  while  the  fratricides  of  France 
Are  treading  on  the  neck  of  Rome, 

Hider  at  Gaeta,  —  seize  thy  chance  ! 
Coward  and  cruel,  come  ! 

Creep  now  from  Naples'  bloody  skirt ; 

Thy  mummer's  part  was  acted  well, 
While  Rome,  with  steel  and  fire  begirt, 

Before  thy  crusade  fell ! 

Her  death-groans  answered  to  thy 
prayer ; 

Thy  chant,  the  drum  and  bugle-call ; 
Thy  lights,  the  burning  villa's  glare  ; 

Thy  beads,  the  shell  and  ball ! 

Let  Austria  clear  thy  way,  with  hands 
Foul  from  Ancona's  cruel  sack, 

And  Naples,  with  his  dastard  bands 
Of  murderers,  lead  thee  back  ! 

Rome'slipsaredumb;  theorphan'swail, 
The  mother's  shriek,  thou  mayst  noV 
hear 

Above  the  faithless  Frenchman's  hail, 
The  unsexed  shaveling's  cheer  ! 


i78 


MI SC ELL  A  NE  O  US. 


Go,  bind  on  Rome  her  cast-off  weight, 
The  double  curse  of  crook  and  crown, 

Though  woman's  scorn  and  manhood's 

hate 
From  wall  and  roof  flash  down  ! 

Nor  heed  those  blood-stains  on  the  wall, 
Not  Tiber's  flood  can  wash  away, 

Where,  in  thy  stately  Quirinal, 
Thy  mangled  victims  lay  ! 

Let  the  world  murmur  ;  let  its  cry 
Of  horror  and  disgust  be  heard  ;  — 

Truth  stands  alone  ;  thy  coward  lie 
Is  backed  by  lance  and  sword  ! 

The  cannon  of  St.  Angelo, 

And  chanting  priest  and  clanging  bell, 
And  beat  of  drum  and  bugle  blow, 

Shall  greet  thy  coming  well ! 

Let  lips  of  iron  and  tongues  of  slaves 
Fit  welcome  give  thee"; — for  her  part, 

Rome,    frowning   o'er    her    new-made 

graves, 
Shall  curse  thee  from  her  heart ! 

No  wreaths  of  sad  Campagna's  flowers 
Shall  childhood  in  thy  pathway  fling  ; 

No  garlands  from  their  ravaged  bowers 
Shall  Term's  maidens  bring  ; 

But,  hateful  as  that  tyrant  old, 
The  mocking  witness  of  his  crime, 

In  thee  shall  loathing  eyes  behold 
The  Nero  of  our  time  ! 

Stand  where  Rome's  blood  was  freest 

shed, 
Mock  Heaven  with  impious  thanks, 

and  call 

Its  curses  on  the  patriot  dead, 
Its  blessings  on  the  Gaul ! 

Or  sit  upon  thy  throne  of  lies, 

A  poor,  mean  idol,  blood-besmeared, 

Whom  even  its  worshippers  despise,  — 
Unhonored,  unrevered  ! 

Yet,  Scandal  of  the  World  !  from  thee 
One    needful   truth    mankind    shall 
learn,  — 

That  kings  and  priests  to  Liberty 
And  God  are  false  in  turn. 


Earth  wearies  of  them ;  and  the  long 
Meek  sufferance  of  the  Heavens  doth 
fail; 

Woe  for  weak  tyrants,  when  the  strong 
Wake,  struggle,  and  prevail ! 

Not  vainly  Roman  hearts  have  bled 
To  feed  the  Crozier  and  the  Crown, 

If,  roused  thereby,  the  world  shall  tread 
The  twin-born  vampires  down  ! 


ELLIOTTS 

HANDS  off!  thou  tithe-fat  plunderer! 
play 

No  trick  of  priestcraft  here  ! 
Back,  puny  lordling  !  darest  thou  lay 

A  hand  on  Elliott's  bier? 
Alive,  your  rank  and  pomp,  as  dust, 

Beneath  his  feet  he  trod  : 
He  knew  the  locust  swarm  that  cursed 

The  harvest-fields  of  God. 

On     these  pale    lips,    the    smothered 
thought 

Which  England's  millions  feel, 
A  fierce  and  fearful  splendor  caught, 

As  from  his  forge  the  steel. 
Strong-armed  as  Thor,  — a  shower  of  fire 

His  smitten  anvil  flung  ; 
God's  curse,  Earth's  wrong,  dumb  Hun 
ger's  ire,  — 

He  gave  them  all  a  tongue  ! 

Then  let  the  poor  man's  horny  hands 

Bear  up  the  mighty  dead, 
And  labor's  swart  and  stalwart  bands 

Behind  as  mourners  tread. 
Leave   cant  and  craft  their  baptized 
bounds, 

Leave  rank  its  minster  floor ; 
Give    England's    green    and   daisied 
grounds 

The  poet  of  the  poor  ! 

Lay  down  upon  his  Sheafs  green  verge 

That  brave  old  heart  of  oak, 
With  fitting  dirge  from  sounding  forge, 

And  pall  of  furnace  smoke  ! 
Where  whirls  the  stone  its  dizzy  rounds, 

And  axe  and  sledge  are  swung, 
And,  timing  to  their  stormy  sounds, 

His  stormy  lays  are  sung. 


THE    CHRISTIAN  TOURISTS. 


179 


There  let  the  peasant's  step  be  heard, 

The  grinder  chant  his  rhyme  ; 
Nor  patron's  praise  nor  dainty  word 

Befits  the  man  or  time. 
No  soft  lament  nor  dreamer's  sigh 

For  him  whose  words  were  bread,  — 
The  Runic  rhyme  and  spell  whereby 

The  foodless  poor  were  fed  ! 

Pile  up  thy  tombs  of  rank  and  pride, 

O  England,  as  thou  wilt  ! 
With  pomp  to  nameless  worth  denied, 

Emblazon  titled  guilt ! 
No  part  or  lot  in  these  we  claim  ; 

But,  o'er  the  sounding  wave, 
A  common  right  to  Elliott's  name, 

A  freehold  in  his  grave  ! 


ICHABOD  ! 

So  fallen  I  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore  ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore  ! 

Revile  him  not,  —  the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all ; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall ! 

O,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn  !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven  ! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naughx 
Save  power  remains,  — 


A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 
Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone  ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled  : 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead  ! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame  ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame  ! 


THE  CHRISTIAN  TOURISTS.** 

No  aimless  wanderers,   by   the   fiend 

Unrest 

Goaded  from  shore  to  shore  ; 
No  schoolmen,  turning,  in  their  classic 

quest, 

The  leaves  of  empire  o'er. 
Simple  of  faith,  and  bearing  in  their 

hearts 

The  love  of  man  and  God, 
Isles  of  old  song,  the  Moslem's  ancient 

marts. 
And  Scythia's  steppes,  they  trod. 

Where  the  long  shadows  of  the  fir  and 

pine 

In  the  night  sun  are  cast, 
And  the  deep  heart  of  many  a  Norland 

mine  . 

Quakes  at  each  riving  blast ; 
Where,  in  barbaric  grandeur,  Moskwa 

stands, 

A  baptized  Scythian  queen, 
With  Europe's  arts  and  Asia's  jewelled 

hands, 
The  North  and  East  between  ! 

Where  still,  through  vales  of  Grecian 

fable,  stray 

The  classic  forms  of  yore, 
And  Beauty  smiles,  new  risen  from  the 

spray, 

And  Dian  weeps  once  more  ; 
Where  every  tongue  in  Smyrna's  mart 

resounds ; 

And  Stamboul  from  the  sea 
Lifts  her  tall    minarets    over    burial- 
grounds 
Black  with  the  cypress-tree  J 


i8o 


MIS  CELL  A  NE  O  US. 


From  Malta's  temples  to  the  gates  of 

Rome, 

Following  the  track  of  Paul, 
And  where   the  Alps  gird  round  the 

Switzer's  home 
Their  vast,  eternal  wall  ; 
They  paused  not  by  the   ruins  of  old 

time, 

They  scanned  no  pictures  rare, 
iTor  lingered  where   the   snow-locked 

mountains  climb 
The  cold  abyss  of  air  ! 

But  unto  prisons,   where  men  lay  in 

chains, 

To  haunts  where  Hunger  pined, 
To  kings  and  courts  forgetful  of  the 

pains 

And  wants  of  human-kind, 
Scattering  sweet  words,  and  quiet  deeds 

of  good, 

Along  their  way,  like  flowers, 
Or  pleading,  as  Christ's  freemen  only 

could, 
With  princes  and  with  powers  ; 

Their  single  aim  the  purpose  to  fulfil 

Of  Truth,  from  day  to  day, 
Simply  obedient  to  its  guiding  will, 

They  held  their  pilgrim  way. 
Yet  dream  not,  hence,  the  beautiful  and 
old 

Were  wasted  on  their  sight, 
Who  in  the  school  of  Christ  had  learned 
to  hold 

All  outward  things  aright. 

Not  less  to  them  the  breath  of  vine 
yards  blown 

From  off  the  Cyprian  shore, 
Not  less  for  them  the  Alps  in  sunset 

shone, 

t  That  man  they  valued  more. 
A  life  of  beauty  lends  to  all  it  sees 

The  beauty  of  its  thought ; 
And  fairest  forms  and  sweetest  harmo 
nies 
Make  glad  its  way,  unsought. 

In  sweet  accqrdancy  of  praise  and  love, 

The  singing  waters  run  ; 
Arud  sunset   mountains  wear  in  light 
above 

The  smile  of  duty  done  ; 


Sure  stands  the  promise,  —  ever  to  the 

meek 

A  heritage  is  given  ; 
Nor  lose  they  Earth  who,  single-heart 
ed,  seek 
The  righteousness  of  Heaven  ! 


THE  MEN   OF  OLD. 

WELL  speed  thy  mission,  bold  Icono 
clast  ! 

Yet  all  unworthy  of  its  trust  thou  art, 
If,  with  dry  eye,  and  cold,  unloving 

heart, 
Thou  tread'st  the  solemn  Pantheon  of 

the  Past, 
By  the  great  Future's  dazzling  hope 

made  blind 
To  all  the  beauty,  power,  and  truth 

behind. 
Not    without  reverent    awe    shouldst 

thou  put  by 

The  cypress  branches  and  the  ama 
ranth  blooms, 
Where,  with  clasped  hands  of  prayer, 

upon  their  tombs 
The  effigies  of  old  confessors  lie, 
God's  witnesses  ;  the  voices  of  his  will, 
Heard  in  the  slow  march  of  the  cen 
turies  still  ! 
Such  were  the  men  at  whose  rebuking 

frown, 
Dark  with   God's  wrath,   the  tyrant's 

knee  went  down  ; 

Such  from  the  terrors  of  the  guilty  drew 
The  vassal's  freedom    and  the    poor 
man's  due. 

St.  Anselm  (may  he  rest  forevermore 
In  Heaven's  sweet  peace  !)  forbade, 

of  old,  the  sale 
Of   men    as    slaves,   and  from   the 

sacred  pale 
Hurled   the    Northumbrian   buyers  of 

the  poor. 
To  ransom  souls  from  bonds  and  evil 

fate 
St.  Ambrose  melted  down  the  sacred 

plate,  — 
Image   of  saint,    the   chalice,  and  the 

pix, 
Crosses  of  gold,  and  silver  candlesticks. 


THE  PEACE   CONVENTION  AT  BRUSSELS. 


U  MAN    IS    WORTH    MORE   THAN    TEM 
PLES  ! "  he  replied 

To  such  as  came  his  holy  work  to  chide. 

And  brave   Cesarius,    stripping  altars 

bare, 

And  coining  from  the  Abbey's  golden 
hoard 

The  captive's  freedom,  answered  to  the 

prayer 

Or  threat  of  those  whose  fierce  zeal 
for  the  Lord 

Stifled  their  love  of  man, — "  An  earth 
en  dish 

The  last  sad  supper  of  the  Master 
bore  : 

Most  miserable  sinners  !  do  ye  wish 
More  than  your  Lord,  and  grudge  his 
dying  poor 

What  your  own  pride  and  not  his  need 

requires? 

Souls,  than  these  shining  gauds,  He 
values  more  ; 

Mercy,  not  sacrifice,  his  heart  desires ! " 

O  faithful  worthies  !  resting  far  behind 

In  your  dark  ages,  since  ye  fell  asleep, 

Much  has  been  done  for  truth  and  hu 
man-kind,  — 

Shadows    are    scattered    wherein    ye 


freer  pulses 


groped  blind  ; 
Man  claims  his  birthright, 


leap 


Through  peoples  driven  in  your  day 

like  sheep ; 
Yet,  like  your  own,  our  age's  sphere  of 

light, 
Though  widening  still,  is  walled  around 

by  night ; 
With  slow,  reluctant  eye,  the  Church 

has  read, 
Sceptic  at    heart,    the    lessons  of  its 

Head  ; 
Counting,  too  oft,  its  living  members 

less 

Than  the  wall's  garnish  and  the  pul 
pit's  dress  ; 
World-moving  zeal,  with  power  to  bless 

and  feed 
Life's  fainting  pilgrims,  to  their  utter 

need, 
Instead  of  bread,  holds  out  the  stone 

of  creed  ; 
Sect  builds   and   worships   where    its 

wealth  and  pride 
And  vanity  stand  shrined  and  deified, 


Careless  that  in  the  shadow  of  its  walls 
God's  living  temple  into  ruin  falls. 
We  need,  methinks,  the  prophet-hero 

still, 
Saints  true  of  life,  and  martyrs  strong 

of  will, 
To  tread  the  land,  even  now,  as  Xavier 

trod 
The   streets  of  Goa,   barefoot,   with 

his  bell, 
Proclaiming   freedom   in  the  name  of 

God, 
And  startling  tyrants  with  the  fear  of 

hell ! 
Soft  words,  smooth  prophecies,  are 

doubtless  well ; 

But  to  rebuke  the  age's  popular  crime, 
We  need  the  souls  of  fire,  the  hearts 

of  that  old  time  ! 


THE  PEACE  CONVENTION  AT 
BRUSSELS. 

STILL  in  thy  streets,  O  Paris !  doth 
the  stain 

Of  blood  defy  the  cleansing  autumn 
rain ; 

Still  breaks  the  smoke  Messina's  ruins 
through, 

And  Naples  mourns  that  new  Bar 
tholomew, 

When  squalid  beggary,  for  a  dole  of 
bread, 

At  a  crowned  murderer's  beck  of  li 
cense,  fed 

The  yawning  trenches  with  her  noble 
dead  ; 

Still,  doomed  Vienna,  through  thy 
stately  halls 

The  shell  goes  crashing  and  the  red 
shot  falls, 

And,  leagued  to  crush  thee,  on  the 
Danube's  side, 

The  bearded  Croat  and  Bosniak  spear 
man  ride  ; 

Still  in  that  vale  where  Himalaya's  snow 

Melts  round  the  cornfields  and  the 
vines  below, 

The  Sikh's  hot  cannon,  answering  ball 
for  ball, 

Flames  in  the  breach  of  Moultan's 
shattered  wall ; 


x8a 


MISCELLA  NEOUS. 


On  Chenab's  side  the  vulture  seeks  the 
slain, 

And  Sutlcj  paints  with  blood  its  banks 
again. 

"What  folly,  then,"  the  faithless  critic 
cries, 

With  sneering  lip,  and  wise,  world- 
knowing  eyes, 

"  While  fort  to  fort,  and  post  to  post, 
repeat 

The  ceaseless  challenge  of  the  war- 
drum's  beat, 

And  round  the  green  earth,  to  the 
church-bell's  chime, 

The  morning  drum-roll  of  the  camp 
keeps  time, 

Todream  of  peace  amidst  a  worldin  arms, 

Of  swords  to  ploughshares  changed  by 
Scriptural  charms, 

Of  nations,  drunken  with  the  wine  of 
blood, 

Staggering  to  take  the  Pledge  of  Broth 
erhood, 

Like  tipplers  answering  Father  Math- 
ew's  call,  — 

The  sullen  Spaniard,  and  the  mad-cap 
Gaul, 

The  bull-dog  Briton,  yielding  but  with 
life, 

The  Yankee  swaggering  with  his  bowie- 
knife, 

The  Russ,  from  banquets  with  the  vul 
ture  shared, 

The  blood  still  dripping  from  his  am 
ber  beard, 

Quitting  their  mad  Berserker  dance  to 
hear 

The  dull,  meek  droning  of  a  drab-coat 
seer  ; 

Leaving  the  sport  of  Presidents  and 
Kings, 

Where  men  for  dice  each  titled  gambler 
flings, 

To  meet  alternate  on  the  Seine  and 
Thames, 

For  tea  and  gossip,  like  old  country 
dames  ! 

No  !  let  the  cravens  plead  the  weak 
ling's  cant, 

Let  Cobden  cipher,  and  let  Vincent  rant, 

Let  Sturge  preach  peace  to  democratic 
throngs, 

And  Burritt,  stammering  through  his 
hundred  tongues, 


Repeat,  in  all,  his  ghostly  lessons  o'erv 

Timed  to  the  pauses  of  the  battery's 
roar  ; 

Check  Ban  or  Kaiser  with  the  barri 
cade 

Of  "  Olive-leaves  "  and  Resolutions 
made, 

Spikeguns  with  pointed  Scripture-texts, 
and  hope 

To  capsize  navies  with  a  windy  trope  ; 

Still  shall  the  glory  and  the  pomp  of 
War 

Along  their  train  the  shouting  millions 
draw; 

Still  dusty  Labor  to  the  passing  Brave 

His  cap  shall  doff,  and  Beauty's  ker 
chief  wave  ; 

Still  shall  the  bard  to  Valor  tune  his 
song, 

Still  Hero-worship  kneel  before  the 
Strong  ; 

Rosy  and  sleek,  the  sable  -  gowned 
divine, 

O'er  his  third  bottle  of  suggestive  wine, 

To  plumed  and  sworded  auditors,  shall 
prove 

Their  trade  accordant  with  the  Law  of 
Love ; 

And  Church  for  State,  and  State  for 
Church,  shall  fight, 

And  both  agree,  that  Might  alone  is 
.Right!" 

Despite  of  sneers  like  these,  O  faith 
ful  few, 

Who  dare  to  hold  God's  word  and 
witness  true, 

Whose  clear-eyed  faith  transcends  our 
evil  time, 

And  o'er  thepresent  wilderness  of  crime, 

Sees  the  calm  future,  with  its  robes  of 
green, 

Its  fleece-flecked  mountains,  and  soft 
streams  between,  — 

Still  keep  the  path  which  duty  bids  ye 
tread, 

Though  worldly  wisdom  shake  the 
cautious  head  ; 

No  truth  from  Heaven  descends  upon 
our  sphere, 

Without  the  greeting  of  the  sceptic's 
sneer ; 

Denied  and  mocked  at,  till  its  bless 
ings  fall, 

Common  as  dew  and  sunshine,  over  all. 


OUR   STATE. 


183 


Then,  o'er  Earth's  war-field,  till  the 

strife  shall  cease, 
Like  Morven's  harpers,  sing  your  song 

of  peace  ; 
As  in   old  fable  rang  the  Thracian's 

lyre, 
Midst  howl  of  fiends  and  roar  of  penal 

fire, 
Till  the  fierce  din  to  pleasing  murmurs 

fell, 
And  love  subdued  the  maddened  heart 

of  hell. 
Lend,   once   again,   that  holy  song   a 

tongue, 
Which  the  glad  angels  of  the  Advent 

sung, 
Their  cradle-anthem  for  the  Saviour's 

birth, 

Glory  to  God,  and  peace  unto  the  earth  ! 
Through  the  mad   discord  send  that 

calming  word 
Which  wind  and  wave  on  wild  Genes- 

areth  heard, 
Lift  in  Christ's  name  his  Cross  against 

the  Sword  ! 
Not  vain  the  vision  which  the  prophets 

saw, 
Skirting  with  green  the  fiery  waste  of 

war, 
Through  the  hot  sand-gleam,  looming 

soft  and  calm 
On  the  sky's  rim,  the  fountain-shading 

palm. 
Still  lives  for  Earth,  which  fiends  so 

long  have  trod, 
The  great  hope  resting  on  the  truth  of 

God,  — 

Evil  shall  cease  and  Violence  pass  away, 
And  the  tired  world  breathe  free  through 

a  long  Sabbath  day. 
nth.  mo.,  1848. 


THE  WISH  OF  TO-DAY. 

I  ASK  not  now  for  gold  to  gild 

With  mocking  shine  a  weary  frame  ; 

The  yearning  of  the  mind  is  stilled, — 
I  ask  not  now  for  Fame. 

A  rose-cloud,  dimly  seen  above, 

Melting    in    heaven's    blue    depths 
away,  — 


O,  sweet,  fond  dream  of  human  Love  I 
For  thee  I  may  not  pray. 

But,  bowed  in  lowliness  of  mind, 

I  make  my  humble  wishes  known,  — 
I  only  ask  a  will  resigned, 

0  Father,  to  thine  own  ! 

To-day,  beneath  thy  chastening  eye 

1  crave  alone  for  peace  and  rest, 
Submissive  in  thy  hand  to  lie, 

And  feel  that  it  is  best. 

A  marvel  seems  the  Universe, 
A  miracle  our  Life  and  Death  ; 

A  mystery  which  I  cannot  pierce, 
Around,  above,  beneath. 

In  vain  I  task  my  aching  brain, 
In  vain  the  sage's  thought  I  scan 

I  only  feel  how  weak  and  vain, 
How  poor  and  blind,  is  man. 

And  now  my  spirit  sighs  for  home, 
And  longs  for  light  whereby  to  see, 

And,  like  a  weary  child,  would  come, 
O  Father,  unto  thee  ! 

Though  oft,  like  letters  traced  on  sand, 
My  weak  resolves  have  passed  away, 

In  mercy  lend  thy  helping  hand 
Unto  my  prayer  to-day  ! 


OUR  STATE. 

THE  South-land  boasts  its  teeming  cane, 
The  prairied  West  its  heavy  grain, 
And  sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold  ! 

Rough,  bleak,  and  hard,  our  little  State 
Is  scant  of  soil,  of  limits  strait  ; 
Her  yellow  sands  are  sands  alone, 
Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone  ! 

From  Autumn  frost  to  April  rain, 
Too  long  her  winter  woods  complain  ; 
From  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 
Her  summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 


MISCELLA  NEOUS. 


Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 
And    wintry    hills,    the    school-house 

stands, 

And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies, 
The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 

The  riches  of  the  Commonwealth 

Are  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of 

health  ; 

And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 
The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 
The  stubborn  strength  of  Pilgrim  Rock  ; 
And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 
And  clearer  light,  the  Good  Old  Cause  ! 

Nor  heeds  the  sceptic's  puny  hands, 
While  near  her  school  the  church-spire 

stands  ; 

Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot's  rule, 
While  near  her  church-spire  stands  the 

school. 


ALL'S  WELL. 

THE  clouds,  which  rise  with  thunder, 
slake 

Our  thirsty  souls  with  rain  ; 
The  blow  most  dreaded  falls  to  break 

From  off  our  limbs  a  chain  ; 
And  wrongs  of  man  to  man  but  make 

The  love  of  God  more  plain. 
As  through  the  shadowy  lens  of  even 
The  eye  looks  farthest  into  heaven 
On  gleams  of  star  and  depths  of  blue 
The  glaring  sunshine  never  knew  ! 


SEED-TIME  AND   HARVEST. 

As  o'er  his  furrowed  fields  which  lie 
Beneath  a  coldly-dropping  sky, 
Yet  chill  with  winter's  melted  snow, 
The  husbandman  goes  forth  to  sow, 

Thus,  Freedom,  on  the  bitter  blast 
The  ventures  of  thy  seed  we  cast, 
And  trust  to  warmer  sun  and  rain  _ 
To  swell  the  germ,  and  fill  the  grain. 


Who  calls  thy  glorious  service  hard? 
Who  deems  it  not  its  own  reward  ? 
Who,  for  its  trials,  counts  it  less 
A  cause  of  praise  and  thankfulness  ? 

It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield 
The  sickle  in  the  ripened  field  ; 
Nor  ours  to  hear,  on  summer  eves, 
The  reaper's  song  among  the  sheaves. 

Yet  where  our  duty's  task  is  wrought 
In  unison  with  God's  great  thought, 
The  near  and  future  blend  in  one, 
And  whatsoe'er  is  willed,  is  done  ! 

And  ours  the  grateful  service  whence 
Comes,  day  by  day,  the  recompense  ; 
The  hope,  the  trust,  the  purpose  stayed, 
The  fountain  and  the  noonday  shade. 

And  were  this  life  the  utmost  span, 
The  only  end  and  aim  of  man, 
Better  the  toil  of  fields  like  these 
Than  waking  dream  and  slothful  ease. 

But  life,  though  falling  like  our  grain, 
Like  that  revives  and  springs  again  ; 
And,  early  called,  how  blest  are  they 
Who  wait  in  heaven  their  harvest-day  1 


TO  A.    K. 

ON     RECEIVING     A     BASKET     OF     SEA- 
MOSSES. 

THANKS  for  thy  gift 

Of  ocean  flowers, 
Born  where  the  golden  drift 
Of  the  slant  sunshine  falls 
Down  the  green,  tremulous  walls 
Of  water,  to  the  cool  still  coral  bow 
ers, 
Where,  under  rainbows  of  perpetual 

showers, 

God's  gardens  of  the  deep 
His  patient  angels  keep  ; 
Gladdening  the  dim,  strange  solitude 
With  fairest  forms  and  hues,  and 

thus 

Forever  teaching  us 
The   lesson    which   the    many-colored 
skies, 


TO  A.   K. 


185 


The  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  painted 

butterflies, 
The  deer's  branched  antlers,  the  gay 

bird  that  flings 
The  tropic   sunshine   from  its  golden 

wings, 

The  brightness  of  the  human  counte 
nance, 

Its  play  of  smiles,  the  magic  ofa  glance, 
Forevermore  repeat, 
In  varied  tones  and  sweet, 
That  beauty,  in  and  of  itself,  is  good. 

O   kind   and  generous    friend,    o'er 

whom 

The  sunset  hues  of  Time  are  cast, 
Painting,  upon  the  overpast 
And  scattered  clouds  of  noonday 

sorrow 

The  promise  of  a  fairer  morrow, 
An  earnest  of  the  better  life  to  come  ; 
The  binding  of  the  spirit  broken, 
The  warning  to  the  erring  spoken, 

The  comfort  of  the  sad, 
The  eye  to  see,  the  hand  to  cull 
Of  common  things  the  beautiful, 

The  absent  heart  made  glad 
By  simple  gift  or  graceful  token 
Of  love  it  needs  as  daily  food, 
All  own  one  Source,  and  all   are 

good  ! 
Hence,  tracking  sunny  cove   and 

reach, 
Where  spent  waves   glimmer   up 

the  beach, 
And  toss  their  gifts  of  weed   and 

shell 
From  foamy  curve   and  combing 

swell, 

No  unbefitting  task  was  thine 
To  weave  these  flowers  so  soft 

and  fair 
In  unison  with  His  design 

Who  loveth  beauty  everywhere  ; 
And  makes  in  every  zone  arid  clime, 

In  ocean  and  in  upper  air, 
"  All  things  beautifulintheirtime." 


For  not  alone  in  tones  of  awe  and 

power 

He  speaks  to  man  ; 
The  cloudy  horror  of  the  thunder- 
shower 

His  rainbows  span  ; 
And  where  the  caravan 
Winds  o'er  the  desert,  leaving,  as  in 

air 
The    crane-flock  leaves,    no  trace    of 

passage  there, 
He  gives  the  weary  eye   . 
The  palm-leaf  shadow  for  the  hot  noon 

hours, 

And  on  its  branches  dry 
Calls  out  the  acacia's  flowers  ; 
And  where   the  dark  shaft    pierces 

down 

Beneath  the  mountain  roots, 
Seen  by  the  miner's  lamp  alone, 
The  star-like  crystal  shoots  ; 
So,  where,  the  winds  and  waves 

below, 

The  coral-branched  gardens  grow, 
His  climbing  weeds  and  mosses 

show, 

Like  foliage,  on  each  stony  bough, 
Of  varied  hues  more  strangely  gay 
Than  forest  leaves  in  autumn's 

day ;  — 

Thus  evermore, 
On  sky,  and  wave,  and  shore, 
An  all-pervading  beauty  seems  to 

say : 
God's  love  and  power  are  one  ;  and 

they, 
Who,  like  the  thunder  of  a  sultry 

day, 

Smite  to  restore, 
And  they,  who,  like  the  gentle  wind, 

uplift 
The  petals  of  the  dew-wet  flowers,  and 

drift 

Their  perfume  on  the  air, 
Alike  may  serve  Him,  each,  with  their 

own  gift, 
Making  their  lives  a  prayer  ! 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE    HERMITS, 


OTHER    POEMS. 


1852. 


THE   CHAPEL   OF  THE   HERMITS. 


"  I  DO  believe,  and  yet,  in  grief, 
I  pray  for  help  to  unbelief; 
For  needful  strength  aside  to  lay 
The  daily  cumberings  of  my  way. 

*'  I  'm  sick  at  heart  of  craft  and  cant, 
Sick  of  the  crazed  enthusiast's  rant, 
Profession's  smooth  hypocrisies, 
And  creeds  of  iron,  and  lives  of  ease. 

"  I  ponder  o'er  the  sacred  word, 
I  read  the  record  of  our  Lord ; 
And,  weak  and  troubled,  envy  them 
Who  touched  his  seamless  garment's 
hem ;  — 

"Who  saw  the  tears  of  love  he  wept 
Above  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept ; 
And  heard,  amidst  the  shadows  dim 
Of  Olivet,  ms  evening  hymn. 

"  How  blessed   the    swineherd's    low 

estate, 

The  beggar  crouching  at  the  gate, 
The  leper  loathly  and  abhorred, 
Whose  eyes  of  flesh  beheld  the  Lord  ! 

"  O  sacred  soil  his  sandals  pressed  ! 
Sweet  fountains  of  his  noonday  rest  I 
O  light  and  air  of  Palestine, 
Impregnate  with  his  life  divine  ! 

"  O,  bear  me  thither  !     Let  me  look 
On  Siloa's  pool,  and  Kedron's  brook,  — 
Kneel  at  Gethsemane,  and  by 
Genesaret  walk,  before  I  die  ! 

"  Methinks  this  cold  and  northern  night 
Would  melt  before  that  Orient  light  ; 
And,  wet  by  Hermon's  dew  and  rain, 
My  childhood's  faith  revive  again  !  " 


So  spake  my  friend,  one  autumn  day, 
Where  the  still  river  slid  away 
Beneath  us,  and  above  the  brown 
Red  curtains  of  the  woods  shut  down. 

Then  said  I,  —  for  I  could  not  brook 
The  mute  appealing  of  his  look,  — 
"  I,  too,  am  weak,  and  faith  is  small, 
And  blindness  happeneth  unto  all. 

"  Yet,  sometimes  glimpses  on  my  sight, 
Through  present  wrong,  the  eternal 

right ; 

And,  step  by  step,  since  time  began, 
I  see  the  steady  gain  of  man  ; 

"  That  all  of  good  the  past  hath  had 
Remains  to  make  our  own  time  glad,  — 
Our  common  daily  life  divine, 
And  every  land  a  Palestine. 

"  Thou  weariest  of  thy  present  state  ; 
What  gain  to  thee  time's  holiest  date  ? 
The  doubter  now  perchance  had  been 
As  High  Priest  or  as  Pilate  then  ! 

"What    thought    Chorazin's  scribes? 

What  faith 

In  Him  had  Nain  and  Nazareth? 
Of  the  few  followers  whom  He  led 
One  sold  him,  —  all  forsook  and  fled. 

"  O  friend  !  we  need  nor  rock  nor  sand, 
Nor  storied  stream  of  Morning-Land  ; 
The  heavens  are  glassed  in  Merri- 

mack,  — 
What  more  could  Jordan  render  back  ? 

"  We  lack  but  open  eye  and  ear 
To  find  the  Orient's  marvels  here  :  — 
The  still  small  voice  in  autumn's  hush, 
Yon  maple  wood  the  burning  bush. 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


"  For  still  the  new  transcends  the  old, 
In  signs  and  tokens  manifold ;  — 
Slaves  rise  up  men  ;  the  olive  waves, 
With  roots  xleep  set  in  battle  graves  ! 

"Through  the  harsh  noises  of  our  day 
A  low,  sweet  prelude  finds  its  way ; 
Through  clouds  of  doubt,  and  creeds 

of  fear, 
A  light  is  breaking,  calm  and  clear. 

"  That  song  of  Love,  now  low  and  far, 
Erelong  shall  swell  from  star  to  star  ! 
That  light,  the  breaking  day,  which  tips 
The  golden-spired  Apocalypse  !  " 

Then,  when  my  good  friend  shook  his 

head, 

And,  sighing,  sadly  smiled,  I  said : 
"  Thou  mind'st  me  of  a  story  told 
In  rare  Bernardin's  leaves  of  gold."  ^ 

And  while  the  slanted  sunbeams  wove 
The  shadows  of  the  frost-stained  grove, 
And,  picturing  all,  the  river  ran 
O'er  cloud  and  wood,  I  thus  began  : 


In  Mount  Valerien's  chestnut  wood 
The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits  stood  ; 
And  thither,  at  the  close  of  day, 
Came  two  old  pilgrims,  worn  and  gray. 

One,  whose  impetuous  youth  defied 
The  storms  of  Baikal's  wintry  side, 
And  mused  and  dreamed  where  tropic 

day 
Flamed  o'er  his  lost  Virginia's  bay. 

His  simple  tale  of  love  and  woe 
All  hearts  had  melted,  high  or  low 
A  blissful  pain,  a  sweet  distress, 
Immortal  in  its  tenderness. 

Yet,  while  above  his  charmed  page 
Beat  quick  the  young  heart  of  his  age, 
He  walked  amidst  the  crowd  unknown, 
A  sorrowing  old  man,  strange  and  lone. 

A  homeless,  troubled  age,  —  the  gray 
Pale  setting  of  a  weary  day  ; 
Too  dull  his  ear  for  voice  of  praise, 
Too  sadly  worn  his  brow  for  bays. 


Pride,  lust  of  power  and  glory,  slept; 
Yet  still  his  heart  its  young  dream  kept, 
And,  wandering  like  the  deluge-dove, 
Still  sought  the  resting-place  of  love. 

And,  mateless,  childless,  envied  more 
The  peasant's  welcome  from  his  door 
By  smiling  eyes  at  eventide, 
Than  kingly  gifts  or  lettered  pride. 

Until,  in  place  of  wife  and  child, 
All-pitying  Nature  on  him  smiled, 
And  gave  to  him  the  golden  keys 
To  all  her  inmost  sanctities. 

Mild  Druid  of  her  wood-paths  dim  ! 
She  laid  her  great  heart  bare  to  him, 
Its  loves  and  sweet  accords  ;  — he  saw 
The  beauty  of  her  perfect  law. 

The  language  of  her  signs  he  knew, 
What  notes  her  cloudy  clarion  blew; 
The  rhythm  of  autumn's  forest  dyes, 
The  hymn  of  sunset's  painted  skies. 

And  thus  he  seemed  to  hear  the  song 
Which  swept,  of  old,  the  stars  along; 
And  to  his  eyes  the  earth  once  more 
Its  fresh  and  primal  beauty  wore. 

Who  sought  with  him,  from  summer  air, 
And  field  and  wood,  a  balm.for  care  ; 
And  bathed  in  light  of  sunset  skies 
His  tortured  nerves  and  weary  eyes? 

His  fame  on  all  the  winds  had  flown  ; 
His  words  had  shaken  crypt  and  throne; 
Like  fire,  on  camp  and  court  and  cell 
They  dropped,  and  kindled  as  they  fell. 

Beneath  the  pomps  of  state,  below 
The  mitred  juggler's  masque  and  show? 
A  prophecy  —  a  vague  hope  —  ran 
His  burning  thought  from  man  to  man 

For  peace  or  rest  too  well  he  saw 
The  fraud  of  priests,  the  wrong  of  law 
And  felt  how  hard,  between  the  two, 
Their  breath  of  pain  the  millions  dreW 

A  prophet-utterance,  strong  and  wild, 
The  weakness  of  an  unweaned  child, 
A  sun-bright  hope  for  human-kind, 
And  self-despair,  in  him  combined. 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


191 


He  loathed  the  false,  yet  lived  not  true 
To  half  the  glorious  truths  he  knew  ; 
The  doubt,  the  discord,  and  the  sin, 
He  mourned  without,  he  felt  within. 

Untrod  by  him  the  path  he  showed, 
Sweet  pictures  on  his  easel  glowed 
Of  simple  faith,  and  loves  of  home, 
And  virtue's  golden  days  to  come. 

But  weakness,  shame,  and  folly  made 
The  foil  to  all  his  pen  portrayed ; 
Still,  where  his  dreamy  splendors  shone, 
The  shadow  of  himself  was  thrown. 

Lord,  what  is  man,  whose  thought,  at 

times, 

Up  to  thy  sevenfold  brightness  climbs, 
While  still  his  grosser  instinct  clings 
To  earth,  like  other  creeping  things  ! 

S<.  rich  in  words,  in  acts  so  mean  ; 

S«;  high,  so  low  ;  chance-swung  between 

Toe  foulness  of  the  penal  pit 

A  id  Truth's  clear  sky,  millennium-lit ! 

"V  iin  pride  of  star-lent  genius  !  —  vain 
(,'  uick  fancy  and  creative  brain, 
.Unblest  by  prayerful  sacrifice, 
A  bsurdly  great,  or  weakly  wise  ! 

Midst  yearnings  for  a  truer  life, 
Without  were  fears,  within  was  strife  ; 
And  still  his  wayward  act  denied 
The  perfect  good  for  which  he  sighed. 

The  love  he  sent  forth  void  returned  ; 
The  fame  that  crowned  him  scorched 

and  burned, 

Burning,  yet  cold  and  drear  and  lone,  — 
A  fire-mount  in  a  frozen  zone  ! 

Like    that    the    gray-haired    sea-king 

passed,54 

Seen  southward  from  his  sleety  mast, 
About  whose  brows  of  changeless  frost 
A  wreath  of  flame  the  wild  winds  tossed. 

Far  round  the  mournful  beauty  played 
Of  lambent  light  and  purple  shade, 
Lost  on  the  fixed  and  dumb  despair 
Of  frozen  earth  and  sea  and  air ! 


A  man  apart,  unknown,  unloved 

By  those  whose  wrongs  his  soul  had 

moved, 

He  bore  the  ban  of  Church  and  State, 
The  good  man's  fear,  the  bigot's  hate  ! 

Forth  from  the  city's  noise  and  throng, 
Its  pomp  and  shame,  its  sin  and  wrong, 
The  twain  that  summer  day  had  strayed 
To  Mount  Valerien's  chestnut  shade. 

To  them  the  green  fields  arid  the  wood 
Lent  something  of  their  quietude, 
And  golden-tinted  sunset  seemed 
Prophetical  of  all  they  dreamed. 

The  hermits  from  their  simple  cares 
The  bell  was  calling  home  to  prayers, 
And,  listening  to  its  sound,  the  twain 
Seemed  lapped   in    childhood's    trust 
again. 

Wide  open  stood  the  chapel  door ; 
A  sweet  old  music,  swelling  o'er 
Low  prayerful  murmurs,  issuedthence, — 
The  Litanies  of  Providence  ! 

Then  Rousseau  spake  :  "Where  two  or 

three 

In  His  name  meet,  He  there  will  be  ! " 
And  then,  in  silence,  on  their  knees 
They  sank  beneath  the  chestnut-trees. 

As  to  the  blind  returning  light, 
As  daybreak  to  the  Arctic  night, 
Old  faith  revived  :  the  doubts  of  years 
Dissolved  in  reverential  tears. 

That  gush  of  feeling  overpast, 
"  Ah  me  !  "  Bernardin  sighed  at  last, 
"  I  would  thy  bitterest  foes  could  see 
Thy  heart  as  it  is  seen  of  me  ! 

"  No  church  of  God  hast  thou  denied ; 
Thou  hast  but  spurned  in  scorn  aside 
A  base  and  hollow  counterfeit. 
Profaning  the  pure  name  of  it ! 

"  With  dry  dead  moss  and  marish  weeds 
His  fire  the  western  herdsman  feeds, 
And  greener  from  the  ashen  plain 
The  sweet  spring  grasses  rise  again. 


192 


THE   CHAPEL    OF  THE  HERMITS. 


"  Nor  thunder-peal  nor  mighty  wind 
Disturb  the  solid  sky  behind  : 
Andthrough  the  cloud  the  red  bolt  rends 
The  calm,  still  smile  of  Heaven  descends! 

"  Thus  through  the  world,  like  bolt  and 

blast, 
And  scourging  fire,    Ijhy  words    have 

passed. 
Clouds  break,  —  the  steadfast  heavens 

remain ; 
Weeds  burn,  —  the  ashes  feed  the  grain ! 

"  But  whoso  strives  with  wrong  may  find 
Its  touch  pollute,  its  darkness  blind; 
And  learn,  as  latent  fraud  is  shown 
In  others'  faith,  to  doubt  his  own. 

'  Withdreamandfalsehood,  simple  trust 
And  pious  hope  we  tread  in  dust ; 
Lost  the  calm  faith  in  goodness,  — lost 
The  baptism  of  the  Pentecost  1 

"  Alas  !  —  the  blows  for  error  meant 
Too  oft  on  truth  itself  are  spent, 
As  through  the  false  and  vile  and  base 
Looks  forth  her  sad,  rebuking  face. 

"  Not  ours  the  Theban's  charmed  life ; 
We  come  not  scathless  from  the  strife  ! 
The  Python's  coil  about  us  clings, 
The  trampled  Hydra  bites  and  stings  ! 

"  Meanwhile,    the    sport  of    seeming 

chance, 

The  plastic  shapes  of  circumstance, 
What  might  have  been  we  fondly  guess, 
If  earlier  bom,  or  tempted  less. 

"And   thou,   in   these  wild,   troubled 

days, 

Misjudged  alike  in  blame  and  praise, 
Unsought  and  undeserved  the  same 
The  sceptic's  praise,  the  bigot's 

blame ;  — 

"  I  cannot  doubt,  if  thou  hadst  been 
Among  the  highly  favored  men 
Who  walked  on  earth  with  Fenelon, 
He  would  have  owned  thee  as  his  son  ; 

"  And,  bright  with  wings  of  cherubim 
Visibly  waving  over  him, 


Seen  through  his  life,  the  Church  had 

seemed 
All  that  its  old  confessors  dreamed. 

"  I  would  have  been,"   Jean  Jaques 

replied, 

"  The  humblest  servant  at  his  side, 
Obscure,  unknown,  content  to  see 
How  beautiful  man's  life  may  be  ! 

"  O,  more  than  thrice-blest  relic,  more 
Than  solemn  rite  or  sacred  lore, 
The  holy  life  of  one  who  trod 
The  foot-marks  of  the  Christ  of  God  ! 

"  Amidst  a  blinded  world  he  saw 

The  oneness  of  the  Dual  law  ; 

That  Heaven's  sweet  peace  on  Earth 

began, 
And   God  was  loved  through  love  of 

man. 

"  He  lived  the  Truth  which  reconciled 
The   strong  man    Reason,    Faith  the 

child: 

In  him  belief  and  act  were  one, 
The  homilies  of  duty  done  !  " 

So  speaking,  through  the  twilight  gray 
The  two  old  pilgrims  went  their  way. 
What  seeds  of  life  that  day  were  sown, 
The  heavenly  watchers  knew  alone. 

Time  passed,  and  Autumn  came  to  fold 

Green  Summer  in  her  brown  and  gold  ; 

Time  passed,  and  Winter's  tears  of 
snow 

Dropped  on  the  grave-mound  of  Rous 
seau. 

"  The  tree  remaineth  where  it  fell, 
The  gained  on  earth  is  pained  in  hell ! " 
So  priestcraft  from  its  altars  cursed 
The    mournful    doubts    its    falsehood 
nursed. 

Ah  !  well  of  old  the  Psalmist  prayed, 
"Thy    hand,    not    man's,   on    me    be 

laid  ! " 
Earth   frowns    below,    Heaven  weeps 

above, 
And  man  is  hate,  but  God  is  love  ! 


THE   CHAPEL    OF  THE  HERMITS. 


193 


No  Hermits  now  the  wanderer  sees, 
Nor  chapel  with  its  chestnut-trees ; 
A  morning  dream,  a  tale  that 's  told, 
The  wave  of  change  o'er  all  has  rolled. 

Yet  lives  the  lesson  of  that  day ; 
And  from  its  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Comes  up  a  low,  sad  whisper,  "  Make 
The  truth  thine  own,  for  truth's  owa 
sake. 

"'  Why  wait  to  see  in  thy  brief  span 
Its  perfect  flower  and  fruit  in  man  ? 
No  saintly  touch  can  save  ;  no  balm 
Of  healing  hath  the  martyr's  palm. 

"  Midst  soulless  forms,  and  false  pre 
tence 

Of  spiritual  pride  and  pampered  sense, 
A  voice  saith,  *  What  is  that  to  thee  ? 
Be  true  thyself,  and  follow  Me  ! ' 

*'  In  days  when  throne  and  altar  heard 
The  wanton's  wish,  the  bigot's  word, 
And  pomp  of  state  and  ritual  show 
Scarce  hid  the   loathsome    death   be 
low, — 

** Midst  fawning  priests  and  courtiers 

foul, 

The  losel  swarm  of  crown  and  cowl, 
White-robed  walked  Francois  Fenelon, 
Stainless  as  Uriel  in  the  sun  ! 

"  Yet  in  his  time  the  stake  blazed  red, 
The  poor  were  eaten  up  like  bread  ; 
Men  knew  him  not :  his  garment's  hem 
No  healing  virtue  had  for  them. 

"  Alas  !  no  present  saint  we  find  ; 
The  white  cymar  gleams  far  behind, 
Revealed  in  outline  vague,  sublime, 
Through  telescopic  mists  of  time  ! 

"  Trust  not  in  man  with  passing  breath, 
But  in  the  Lord,  old  Scripture  saith  ; 
The  truth  which  saves  thou  mayst  not 

blend 
With  false  professor,  faithless  friend. 

"  Search  thine  own  heart.    What  pain- 

ethjhee 

In  others  in  thyself  may  be  ; 
All  dust  is  frail,  all  flesh  is  weak ; 
Be  thou  the  true  man  thou  dost  seek ! 
13 


"  Where  now  with  pain  thou  treadest, 

trod 

The  whitest  of  the  saints  of  God  ! 
To  show  thee  where  their  feet  were  set, 
The  light  which  led  them  shineth  yet. 

"  The  footprints  of  the  life  divine, 
Which  marked  their  path,  remain  in 

thine  ; 

And  that  great  Life,  transfused  in  theirs, 
Awaits  thy  faith,  thy  love,  thy  prayers  ! " 

A  lesson  which  I  well  may  heed, 
A  word  of  fitness  to  my  need ; 
So  from  that  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Still  saith  a  voice,  or  seems  to  say. 


We  rose,  and  slowly  homeward  turned, 
While    down     the    west     the    sunset 

burned  ; 

And,  in  its  light,  hill,  wood,  and  tide, 
And  human  forms  seemed  glorified. 

The  village  homes  transfigured  stood, 
And  purple  bluffs,  whose  belting  wood 
Across  the  waters  leaned  to  hold 
The  yellow  leaves  like  lamps  of  gold. 

Then  spake  my  friend :  "Thy  words  are 

true  ; 

Forever  old,  forever  new, 
These   home-seen   splendors    are   the 

same 
Which  over  Eden's  sunsets  came. 

"To  these  bowed  heavens  let  wood 

and  hill 

Lift  voiceless  praise  and  anthem  still ; 
Fall,  warm  with  blessing,  over  them, 
Light  of  the  New  Jerusalem  ! 

"  Flow  on,  sweet  river,  like  the  stream 
Of  John's  Apocalyptic  dream  ! 
This  mapled  ridge  shall  Horeb  be, 
Yon  green-banked  lake  our  Galilee  ! 

"  Henceforth  my  heart  shall  sigh  no 

more 

For  olden  time  and  holier  shore  ; 
God's  love    and    blessing,    then   and 

there, 
Are  now  and  here  and  everywhere." 


194 


MI  SC  ELL  A  NEOUS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


QUESTIONS   OF   LIFE. 

And  the  angel  that  was  pent  unto  me, 
irhose  name  was  Uriel,  gave  me  an  answer, 
and  said, 

"  Thy  heart  hath  gone  too  far  in  this 
•world,  and  thinkest  then  to  comprehend 
the  way  of  the  Most  High?  " 

Then  said  I,  "  Yea,  my  Lord." 

Then  said  he  unto  me,  "  Go  thy  way, 
weigh  me  the  weight  of  the  fire,  or  meas- 
\ire  me  the  blast  of  the  wind,  or  call  me 
again  the  day  that  ia  past."  — 2  Esdras, 
chap.  iv. 

A  BENDING  staff  I  would  not  break, 
A  feeble  faith  I  would  not  shake, 
Nor  even  rashly  pluck  away 
The  error  which  some  truth  may  stay, 
Whose  loss  might  leave  the  soul  without 
A  shield  against  the  shafts  of  doubt. 

And  yet,  at  times,  when  over  all 
A  darker  mystery  seems  to  fall, 
(May  God  forgive  the  child  of  dust, 
Who  seeks  to  know,  where  Faith  should 

trust  ! ) 

I  raise  the  questions,  old  and  dark, 
Of  Uzdom's  tempted  patriarch, 
And,  speech -confounded,  build  again 
The  baffled  tower  of  Shinar's  plain. 

I  am  :  how  little  more  I  know  ! 
Whence  came  I?     Whither  do  I  go? 
A  centred  self,  which  feels  and  is  ; 
A  cry  between  the  silences  ; 
A  shadow-birth  of  clouds  at  strife 
With  sunshine  on  the  hills  of  life  ; 
A  shaft  from  Nature's  quiver  cast 
Into  the  Future  from  the  Past  ; 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  shroud, 
A  meteor's  flight  from  cloud  to  cloud. 

Thorough  the  vastness,  arching  all, 
I  see  the  great  stars  rise  and  fall, 
The  rounding  seasons  come  and  go, 
The  tided  oceans  ebb  and  flow  ; 
The  tokens  of  a  central  force, 
Whose  circles,  in  their  widening  course, 
O'erlap  and  move  the  universe  ; 
The  workings  of  the  law  whence  springs 
The  rhythmic  harmony  of  things, 
Which  shapes  in  earth  the  darkling  spar, 
And  orbs  in  heaven  the  morning  star. 


Of  all  I  see,  in  earth  and  sky,  — 
Star,  flower,  beast,  bird,  —  what  part 

have  I  ? 

This  conscious  life,  —  is  it  the  same 
Which  thrills  the  universal  frame, 
Whereby  the  caverned  crystal  shoots, 
And  mounts  the  sap  from  forest  roots, 
Whereby  the  exiled  wood-bird  tells 
When  Spring  makes  green  her  native 

dells? 

How  feels  the  stone  the  pang  of  birth, 
Which  brings  its  sparkling  prism  forth? 
The  forest-tree  the  throb  which  gives 
The  life-blood  to  its  new-born  leaves? 
Do  bird  and  blossom  feel,  like  me, 
Life's  many-folded  mystery,  — 
The  wonder  which  it  is  TO  BE? 
Or  stand  I  severed  and  distinct, 
From  Nature's  chain  of  life  unlinked? 
Allied  to  all,  yet  not  the  less 
Prisoned  in  separate  consciousness, 
Alone  o'erburdened  with  a  sense 
Of  life,  and  cause,  and  consequence? 

In  vain  to  me  the  Sphinx  propounds 
The  riddle  of  her  sights  and  sounds; 
Back  still  the  vaulted  mystery  gives 
The  echoed  question  it  receives. 
What  sings  the  brook?    What  oracle 
Is  in  the  pine-tree's  organ  swell  ? 
What  may  the  wind's  low  burden  be  ? 
The  meaning  of  the  moaning  sea? 
The  hieroglyphics  of  the  stars  ? 
Or  clouded  sunset's  crimson  bars? 
I  vainly  ask,  for  mocks  my  skill 
The  trick  of  Nature's  cipher  still. 

I  turn  from  Nature  unto  men, 

I  ask  the  stylus  and  the  pen  ; 

What  sang  the  bards  of  old?    What 

meant 

The  prophets  of  the  Orient  ? 
The  rolls  of  buried  Egypt,  hid 
In  painted  tomb  and  pyramid? 
What  mean  Idumea's  arrowy  lines, 
Qr  dusk  Elora's  monstrous  signs? 
How  speaks  the  primal  thought  of  man 
From  the  grim  carvings  of  Copan  ? 
Where  rests  the  secret?    Where  the 

keys 
Of  the  old  death-bolted  mysteries? 


THE   PRISONERS  OF  NAPLES. 


'95 


Alas  !  the  dead  retain  their  trust ; 
Dust  hath  no  answer  from  the  dust. 

The  great  enigma  still  unguessed, 
Unanswered  the  eternal  quest ; 
I  gather  up  the  scattered  rays 
Of  wisdom  in  the  early  days, 
Faint  gleams  and  broken,  like  the  light 
Of  meteors  in  a  northern  night, 
Betraying  to  the  darkling  earth 
The  unseen  sun  which  gave  them  birth  ; 
I  listen  to  the  sibyl's  chant, 
The  voice  of  priest  and  hierophant ; 
I  know  what  Indian  Kreeshna  saith, 
And  what  of  life  and  what  of  death 
The  demon  taught  to  Socrates  ; 
And  what,  beneath  his  garden-trees 
Slow  pacing,  with  a  dream-like  tread, 
The  solemn-tho\ighted  Plato  said  ; 
Nor  lack  I  tokens,  great  or  small, 
Of  God's  clear  light  in  each  and  all, 
While  holding  with  more  dear  regard 
The  scroll  of  Hebrew  seer  and  bard, 
The  starry  pages  promise-lit 
With  Christ's  Evangel  over-writ, 
Thy  miracle  of  life  and  death, 
O  holy  one  of  Nazareth  ! 

On  Aztec  ruins,  gray  and  lone, 
The  circling  serpent  coils  in  stone,  — 
Type  of  the  endless  and  unknown  ; 
Whereof  we  seek  the  clew  to  find, 
With  groping  fingers  of  the  blind  ! 
Forever  sought,  and  never  found, 
We  trace  that  serpent-symbol  round 
Our  resting-place,  our  starting  bound  I 
O  thriftlessness  of  dream  and  guess  ! 
O  wisdom  which  is  foolishness  ! 
Why  idly  seek  from  outward  things 
The  answer  inward  silence  brings  ; 
Why  stretch  beyond  our  proper  sphere 
And  aee,  for  that  which  lies  so  near? 
Why  climb  the  far-off  hills  with  pain, 
A  nearer  view  of  heaven  to  gain? 
In  lowliest  depths  of  bosky  dells 
The  hermit  Contemplation  dwells. 
A  fountain's  pine-hung  slope  his  seat, 
And  lotus-twined  his  silent  feet, 
Whence,  piercing  heaven,  with  screened 

sight, 

He  sees  at  noon  the  stars,  whose  light 
Shall  glorify  the  coming  night. 

Here  let  me  pause,  my  quest  forego  ; 
Enough  for  me  to  feel  and  know 


That  he  in  whom  the  cause  and  end, 
The  past  and  future,  meet  and  blend,  — 
Who,  girt  with  his  immensities, 
Our  vast  and  star-hung  system  sees, 
Small  as  the  clustered  Pleiades, — 
Moves  not  alone  the  heavenly  quires, 
But   waves    the    spring-time's    grassy 

spires, 

Guards  not  archangel  feet  alone, 
But  deigns  to  guide  and  keep  my  own  ; 
Speaks  not  alone  the  words  of  fa'te 
Which    worlds    -destroy,    and    worlds 

create, 

But  whispers  in  my  spirit's  ear, 
In  tones  of  love,  or  warning  fear, 
A  language  none  beside  may  hear. 

To    Him,   from  wanderings  long  and 

wild, 

I  come,  an  over-wearied  child, 
In  cool  and  shade  his  peace  to  find, 
Like  dew-fall  settling  on  my  mind. 
Assured  that  all  I  know  is  best, 
And  humbly  trusting  for  the  rest, 
I  turn  from  Fancy's  cloud-built  scheme, 
Dark    creed,    and    mournful    eastern 

dream 

Of  power,  impersonal  and  cold, 
Controlling  all,  itself  controlled, 
Maker  and  slave  of  iron  laws, 
Alike  the  subject  and  the  cause  ; 
From  vain  philosophies,  that  try 
The  sevenfold  gates  of  mystery, 
And,  baffled  ever,  babble  still, 
Word-prodigal  of  fate  and  will; 
From  Nature,  and  her  mockery,  Art, 
And  book  and  speech  of  men  apart, 
To  the  still  witness  in  my  heart ; 
With  reverence  waiting  to  behold 
His  Avatar  of  love  untold, 
The  Eternal  Beauty  new  and  old  ! 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  NAPLES. 

I  HAVE  been  thinking   of  the  victims 

bound 

In  Naples,  dying  for  the  lack  of  air 
And   sunshine,  In    their    close,    damp 

cells  of  pain, 
Where  hope  is  not,  and  innocence  in 

vain 
Appeals  against   the   torture    and   the 

chain  ! 


i96 


MIS  CELL  A  NE  0  US. 


Unfortunates !  whose  crime  it  was  to 

share 
Our  common  love  of  freedom,  and  to 

dare, 

In   its  behalf,    Rome's    harlot    triple- 
crowned, 
And  her  base  pander,  the  most  hateful 

thing 
Who    upon    Christian    or    on    Pagan 

ground 

Makes  vile  the  old  heroic  name  of  king. 
O  God  most  merciful  I    Father  just  and 

kind  ! 
Whom  man  hath  bound  let  thy  right 

hand  unbind. 

Or,  if  thy  purposes  of  good  behind 
Their  ills  lie  hidden,  let  the  sufferers 

find 
Strong  consolations ;  leave  them  not  to 

doubt 

Thy  providential  care,  nor  yet  without 
The  hope  which  all  thy  attributes  in 
spire, 
That  not  in  vain  the  martyr's  robe  of 

fire 
Is  worn,  nor  the  sad  prisoner's  fretting 

chain  ; 
Since  all  who  suffer  for  thy  truth  send 

forth, 

Electrical,  with  every  throb  of  pain, 
Unquenchable   sparks,    thy   own  bap 
tismal  rain 

Of  fire  and  spirit  over  all  the  earth, 
Making  the  dead  in  slavery  live  again. 
Let  this  great  hope  be  with  them,  as 

they  lie 
Shut  from  the  light,  the  greenness,  and 

the  sky,  — 
From  the  cool  waters  and  the  pleasant 

breeze, 
The   smell   of  flowers,   and  shade   of 

summer  trees ; 
Bound  with    the  felon  lepers,    whom 

disease 
And  sins  abhorred  make   loathsome ; 

let  them  share 

Pellico's  faith,  Foresti's  strength  to  bear 
Years    of   unutterable   torment,    stern 

and  still, 
As  the  chained  Titan  victor  through 

his  will !  f 
Comfort  them  with  thy  future  ;  let  them 

see 
The  day-dawn  of  Italian  liberty ; 


For  that,  with  all  good  things,  is  hid 

with  Thee, 
And,  perfect  in  thy  thought,  awaits  its 

time  to  be ! 

I,  who  have  spoken  for  freedom  at  the 

cost 
Of   some   weak   friendships,   or  some 

paltry  prize 
Of  name  or  place,   and  more  than   I 

have  lost 

Have  gained  in  wider  reach  of  sym 
pathies, 
And   free   communion  with  the  good 

and  wise,  — 
May  God  forbid  that   I   should  ever 

boast 

Such  easy  self-denial,  or  repine 
That  the 'strong  pulse  of  health  no  more 

is  mine  ; 
That,   overworn    at  noonday,    I   must 

yield 
To  other  hands   the  gleaning  of  the 

field,— 
A  tired  on-looker  through  the  day's 

decline. 
For  blest  beyond  deserving  still,  and 

knowing 
That   kindly   Providence    its    care    is 

showing 

In  the  withdrawal  as  in  the  bestowing, 
Scarcely  I  dare  for  more  or  less  to  pray. 
Beautiful  yet  for  me  this  autumn  day 
Melts  on  its  sunset  hills  ;  and,  far  away, 
For  me  the  Ocean  lifts  its  solemn  psalm, 
To  me  the  pine-woods  whisper;  and 

for  me 
Yon  river,  winding  through  its  vales  of 

calm, 

By  greenest  banks,  with  asters  purple- 
starred, 
And   gentian    bloom    and    golden-rod 

made  gay, 

Flows  down  in  silent  gladness  to  the  sea, 
Like  a  pure  spirit  to  its  great  reward  ! 

Nor  lack  I  friends,  long-tried  and  near 
and  dear, 

Whose  love  is  round  me  like  this  at 
mosphere, 

Warm,  soft  and  golden.  For  such 
gifts  to  me 

What  shall  1  render.  C  my  God,  to 
thee? 


MOLOCH  IN  STATE   STREET. 


197 


Let  me  not  dwell  upon  my  lighter  share 
Of  pain  and  ill  that  human  life  must 

bear ; 
Save   me  from  selfish  pining ;  let  my 

heart, 

Drawn  from  itself  in  sympathy,  forget 
The  bitter  longings  of  a  vain  regret, 
The  anguish  of  its  own  peculiar  smart. 
Remembering  others,  as  I  have  to-day, 
In  their  great  sorrows,  let  me  live  alway 
Not  for  myself  alone,  but  have  a  part, 
Such  as  a  frail  and  erring  spirit  may, 
In  love  which  is  of  Thee,  and  which 

indeed  Thou  art ! 


MOLOCH   IN   STATE   STREET. 

THE  moon  has  set :  while  yet  the  dawn 

Breaks  cold  and  gray, 
Between  the  midnight  and  the  morn 

Bear  off  your  prey  ! 

On,   swift    and    still! — the   conscious 
street 

Is  panged  and  stirred  ; 
Tread  light !  —  that  fall  of  serried  feet 

The  dead  have  heard  ! 

The  first  drawn  blood  of  Freedom's 
veins 

Gushed  where  ye  tread ; 
Lo  !  through  the  dusk  the  martyr-stains 

Blush  darkly  red ! 

Beneath  the  slowly  waning  stars 

And  whitening  day, 
What  stern  and  awful  presence  bars 

That  sacred  way? 

What  faces  frown  upon  ye,  dark 

With  shame  and  pain  ? 
Come  these  from  Plymouth's  Pilgrim 
bark? 

Is  that  young  Vane? 

Who,  dimly  beckoning,  speed  ye  on 

With  mocking  cheer? 
Lo  !  spectral  Andros,  Hutchinson, 

And  Gage,  are  here  ! 

For  ready  mart  or  favoring  blast 
Through  Moloch's  fire 


Flesh  of  his  flesh,  unsparing,  passed 
The  Tyrian  sire. 

Ye  make  that  ancient  sacrifice 

Of  Man  to  Gain, 

Your  traffic  thrives,   where   Freedom 
dies, 

Beneath  the  chain. 

Ye  sow  to-day,  your  harvest,  scorn 

And  hate,  is  near  ; 
How  think  ye  freemen,  mountain-born, 

The  tale  will  hear? 

Thank  God  !  our  mother  State  can  yet 

Her  fame  retrieve  ; 
To  you  and  to  your  children  let 

The  scandal  cleave. 

Chain  Hall  and  Pulpit,  Court  and  Press, 

Make  gods  of  gold  ; 
Let  honor,  truth,  and  manliness 

Like  wares  be  sold. 

Your  hoards  are  great,  your  walls  are 
strong, 

But  God  is  just ; 
The  gilded  chambers  built  by  wrong 

Invite  the  rust. 

What  !  know  ye  not  the  gains  of  Crime 

Are  dust  and  dross ; 
Its  ventures  on  the  waves  of  time 

Foredoomed  to  loss  ! 

And  still  the  Pilgrim  State  remains 

What  she  hath  been  ; 
Her  inland  hills,  her  seaward  plains, 

Still  nurture  men  ! 

Nor  wholly  lost  the  fallen  mart,  — 

Her  olden  blood 
Through  manyafree  and  generous  heart 

Still  pours  its  flood. 

That  brave  old  blood,  quick-flowing  yet, 

Shall  know  no  check, 
Till  a  free  people's  foot  is  set 

On  Slavery's  neck. 

Even  now,  the  peal  of  bell  and  gun, 

And  hills  aflame, 
Tell  of  the  first  great  triumph  won 

In  Freedom's  name.55 


193 


MISCEL  LANEO  US. 


The  long  night  dies  :  the  welcome  gray 

Of  dawn  we  see  ; 
Speed  up  the  heavens  thy  perfect  day, 

God  of  the  free  ! 

1851. 


THE  PEACE  OF   EUROPE. 
1852. 

"  GREAT  peace  in  Europe !  Order  reigns 
From  Tiber's  hills  to  Danube's  plains!" 
So  say  her  kings  and  priests  ;  so  say 
The  lying  prophets  of  our  day. 

Go  lay  to  earth  a  listening  ear  ; 
The  tramp  of  measured  marches  hear,  — 
The  rolling  of  the  cannon's  wheel, 
The  shotted  musket's  murderous  peal, 
The  night  alarm,  the  sentry's  call, 
The  quick-eared  spy  in  hut  and  hall ! 
From  Polar  sea  and  tropic  fen 
The  dying-groans  of  exiled  men  ! 
The  bolted  cell,  the  galley's  chains, 
The  scaffold  smoking  with  its  stains  ! 
Order,  —  the  hush  of  brooding  slaves  ! 
Peace,  —  in   the    dungeon-vaults  and 
graves  ! 

O  Fisher  !  of  the  world- wide  net, 
With  meshes  in  all  waters  set, 
Whose  fabled  keys  of  heaven  and  hell 
Bolt  hard  the  patriot's  prison-cell, 
And  open  wide  the  banquet-hall, 
Where  kings  and  priests  hold  carnival ! 
Weak  vassal  tricked  in  royal  guise, 
Boy  Kaiser  with  thy  lip  of  lies  ; 
Base  gambler  for  Napoleon's  crown, 
Barnacle  on  his  dead  renown  ! 
Thou,  Bourbon  Neapolitan, 
Crowned  scandal,  loathed  of  God  and 

man  ; 

And  thpu,  fell  Spider  of  the  North  ! 
Stretching  thy  giant  feelers  forth^ 
Within  whose  web  the  freedom  dies 
Of  nations  eaten  up  like  flies  ! 
Speak,  Prince  and  Kaiser,  Priest  and 

Czar  ! 
If  this  be  Peace,  pray  what  is  War? 

White  Angel  of  the  Lord  !  unmeet 
That  soil  accursed  for  thy  pure  feet. 


Never  in  Slavery's  desert  flows 
The  fountain  of  thy  charmed  repose  ; 
No  tyrant's  hand  thy  chaplet  weaves 
Of  lilies  and  of  olive-leaves  ; 
Not  with  the  wicked  shalt  thou  dwell, 
Thus  saith  the  Eternal  Oracle  ; 
Thy  home  is  with  the  pure  and  free  1 
Stern  herald  of  th,y  better  day, 
Before  thee,  to  prepare  thy  way, 
The  Baptist  Shade  of  Liberty, 
Gray,    scarred   and   hairy-robed,  must 

press 

With  bleeding  feet  the  wilderness  ! 
O  that  its  voice  might  pierce  the  ear 
Of  princes,  trembling  while  they  hear 
A  cry  as  of  the  Hebrew  seer  : 
Repent  !  God's  kingdom  draweth  near ! 


WORDSWORTH. 

WRITTEN    ON    A    BLANK    LEAF  OF   HIS 
MEMOIRS. 

DEAR  friends,  who  read  the  world  aright, 
And  in  its  common  forms  discern 

A  beauty  and  a  harmony 
The  many  never  learn  ! 

Kindred  in  soul  of  him  who  found 
In  simple  flower  and  leaf  and  stone 

The  impulse  of  the  sweetest  lays 
Our  Saxon  tongue  has  known,  — 

Accept  this  record  of  a  life 

As  sweet  and  pure,  as  calm  and  gooc* , 
As  a  long  day  of  blandest  June 

In  green  field  and  in  wood. 

How  welcome  to  our  ears,  long  pained 
By  strife  of  sect  and  party  noise, 

The  brook-like  murmur  of  his  song 
Of  nature's  simple  joys  ! 

The  violet  by  its  mossy  stone, 
The  primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 

And  chance-sown" daffodil,  have  found 
Immortal  life  through  him. 

The  sunrise  on  his  breezy  lake, 
The  rosy  tints  his  sunset  brought, 

World-seen,  are  gladdening  all  the  vales 
And  mountain-peaks  of  thought. 


IN  PEACE, 


199 


Art  builds  on  sand  ;  the  works  of  pride 
And  human  passion  change  andjall ; 

But  that  which  shares  the  life  of  God 
With  him  surviveth  all. 


TO 


LINES     WRITTEN     AFTER     A     SUMMER 

DAY'S  EXCURSION. 

FAIR  Nature's  priestesses  !  to  whom, 
In  hieroglyph  of  bud  and  bloom, 

Her  mysteries  are  told ; 
Who,  wise  in  lore  of  wood  and  mead, 
The  seasons'  pictured  scrolls  can  read, 

In  lessons  manifold  ! 

Thanks  for  the  courtesy,  and  gay 
Good-humor,  which  on  Washing  Day 

Our  ill-timed  visit  bore  ; 
Thanks  for  your  graceful  oars,  which 

broke 
The  morning  dreams  of  Artichoke, 

Along  his  wooded  shore  ! 

Varied  as  varying  Nature's  ways, 
Sprites  of  the  river,  woodland  fays, 

Or  mountain  nymphs,  ye  seem  ; 
Free-limbed  Dianas  on  the  green, 
Loch  Katrine's  Ellen,  or  Undine, 

Upon  your  favorite  stream. 

The  forms  of  which  the  poets  told, 
The  fair  benignities  of  old, 

Were  doubtless  such  as  you; 
What  more  than  Artichoke  the  rill 
Of  Helicon?    Than  Pipe-stave  hill 

Arcadia's  mountain- view? 

No  sweeter  bowers  the  bee  delayed, 
In  wild  Hymettus'  scented  shade, 

Than  those  you  dwell  among ; 
Snow-flowered  azalias,  intertwined 
With  roses,  over  banks  inclined 

With  trembling  harebells  hung  ! 

A  charmdd  life  unknown  to  death, 
Immortal  freshness  Nature  hath ; 

Her  fabled  fount  and  glen 
Are  now  and  here  :  Dodona's  shrine 
Still  murmurs  in  the  wind-swept  pine,  — 

All  is  that  e'er  hath  been. 


The  Beauty  which  old  Greece  or  Rome 
Sung,  painted,  wrought,  lies  close  at 
home  ; 

We  need  but  eye  and  ear 
In  all  our  daily  walks  to  trace 
The  outlines  of  incarnate  grace, 

The  hymns  of  gods  to  hear  1 


IN   PEACE. 

A  TRACK  of  moonlight  on  a  quiet  lake, 
Whose  small  waves  on  a  silver-sand 
ed  shore 
Whisper  of  peace,  and  with  the  low 

winds  make 
Such  harmonies  as    keep   the  woods 

awake, 
And  listening  all  night  long  for  their 

sweet  sake 
A  green-waved    slope    of  meadow, 

hovered  o'er 

By  angel-troops  of  lilies,  swaying  light 
On  viewless  stems,  with  folded  wings 

of  white  ; 
A  slumberous  stretch  of  mountain-land, 

far  seen 
Where   the    low  westering  day,   with 

gold  and  green, 

Purple  and  amber,  softly  blended,  fills 
The  wooded  vales,  and  melts  among 

the  hills ; 

A  vine-fringed  river,  winding  to  its  rest 
On  the  calm  bosom  of  a  stormless  sea, 
Bearing  alike  upon  its  placid  breast, 
With  earthly  flowers  and  heavenly  stars 

impressed, 

The  hues  of  time  and  of  eternity: 
Such  are  the  pictures  which  the  thought 

of  thee, 
O   friend,   awakeneth,  —  charming  the 

keen  pain 

Of  thy  departure,  and  our  sense  of  loss 

Requiting  with  the  fulness  of  thy  gain. 

Lo  !  on  the  quiet  grave  thy  life-borne 

cross, 
Dropped  only  at  its  side,  methinks  doth 

shine, 

Of  thy  beatitude  the  radiant  sign  ! 
No  sob  of  grief,  no  wild  lament  be 

there, 
To  break  the  Sabbath  of  the  holy  air ; 


MISCELLA  NEOUS. 


But,  in  their  stead,  the  silent-breathing 

prayer 
Of  hearts  still  waiting  for  a  rest  like 

thine. 
O   spirit   redeemed  !      Forgive    us,   if 

henceforth, 
With   sweet   and  pure    similitudes   of 

earth, 
We  keep  thy  pleasant  memory  freshly 

green, 

Of  love's  inheritance  a  priceless  part, 
Which  Fancy's  self,  in  reverent  awe, 

is  seen 

To  paint,  forgetful  of  the  tricks  of  art, 
With  pencil  dipped  alone  in  colors  of 

the  heart. 


BENEDICITE. 

GOD'S  love  and  peace  be  with  thee, 

where 

Soe'er  this  soft  autumnal  air 
Lifts  the  dark  tresses  of  thy  hair  ! 

Whether  through  city  casements  comes 
Its  kiss  to  thee,  in  crowded  rooms, 
Or,  out  among  the  woodland  blooms, 

It  freshens  o'er  thy  thoughtful  face, 
Imparting,  in  its  glad  embrace, 
Beauty  to  beauty,  grace  to  grace  ! 

Fair  Nature's  book  together  read, 
The  old  wood-paths  that  knew  our  tread, 
The  maple  shadows  overhead,  — 

The  hills  we  climbed,  the  river  seen 
By  gleams  along  its  deep  ravine,  — 
All  keep  thy  memory  fresh  and  green. 

Where'er  I  look,  where'er  I  stray, 
Thy  thought  goes  with  me  on  my  way, 
And  hence  the  prayer  I  breathe  to-day  ; 

O'er  lapse  of  time  and  change  of  scene, 
The  weary  waste  which  lies  between 
Thyself  and  me,  my  heart  I  lean. 

Thou   lack'st  not   Friendship's  spell- 
word,  nor 

The  half-uncdnscious  power  to  draw 
All  hearts  to  thine  by  Love's  sweet  law. 


With  these  good  gifts  of  God  is  cast 
Thy  lot,  and  many  a  charm  thou  hast 
To  hold  the  blessed  angels  fast. 

If,  then,  a  fervent  wish  for  thee 

The  gracious  heavens  will  heed  from 

me, 
What  should,  dear  heart,  its  burden  be? 

The  sighing  of  a  shaken  reed, — 
What  can  I  more  than  meekly  plead 
The  greatness  of  our  common  need  ? 

God's  love,  —  unchanging,   pure,   and 

true,  — 

The  Paraclete  white-shining  through 
His  peace,  —  the  fall  of  Hermon's  dew  ! 

With  such  a  prayer,  on  this  sweet  day, 
As  thou  mayst  hear  and  I  may  say, 
I  greet  thee,  dearest,  far  away  ! 


PICTURES. 


LIGHT,  warmth,  and  sprouting  green 
ness,  and  o'er  all 
Blue,    stainless,    steel-bright  ether, 

raining  down 
Tranquillity  upon  the   deep-hushed 

town, 
The   freshening   meadows,  and   the 

hillsides  brown ;  _ 
Voice  of  the  west-wind  from   the 

hills  of  pine, 

And  the  brimmed  river  from  its   dis 
tant  fall, 

Low  hum  of  bees,  and  joyous  inter 
lude 

Of  bird-songs  in  the  streamlet-skirt 
ing  wood,  — 
Heralds  and  prophecies  of  sound  and 

sight, 
Blessed  forerunners  of  the  warmth 

and  light, 

Attendant  angels  to  the  house  of  prayer, 
With    reverent    footsteps   keeping 

pace  with  mine,  — 
Once  more,  through  God's  great  love, 

with  you  I  share 
A  morn  of  resurrection  sweet  and  fair 


DERNE. 


As  that  which  saw,  of  old,  in  Pal 
estine, 
Immortal    Love    uprising    in    fresh 

bloom 
From  the  dark  night  and  winter  of 

the  tomb  ! 
5/£  mo.,  zd,  1852. 


White  with  its  sun-bleached  dust,  the 

pathway  winds 
Before  me  ;  dust  is  on  the  shrunken 

grass, 
And  on    the    trees   beneath  whose 

boughs  I  pass  ; 
Frail   screen   against  the  Hunter  of 

the  sky, 
Who,  glaring  on  me  with  his  lidless 

eye, 
While  mounting  with  his  dog-star 

high  and  higher 

Ambushed  in  light  intolerable,  unbinds 
The  burnished  quiver  of  his  shafts 

of  fire. 
Between  me  and  the  hot  fields  of  his 

South 

A  tremulous  glow,  as  from  a  furnace- 
mouth, 

Glimmers  and  swims  before  my  daz 
zled  sight, 

As  if  the  burning  arrows  of  his  ire 
Broke  as  they  fell,  and  shattered  in 
to  light ; 
Yet  on  my  cheek   I  feel  the  western 

wind, 
And  hear  it  telling   to   the   orchard 

trees, 
And  to  the  faint  and  flower-forsaken 

bees, 
Tales  of  fair  meadows,   green   with 

constant  streams, 
And  mountains   rising   blue   and   cool 

behind, 

Where  in  moist  dells  the  purple  or 
chis  gleams, 
And   starred   with   white   the   virgin's 

bower  is  twined. 

So  the  o'erweaned  pilgrim,  as  he  fares 
Along  life's  summer  waste,  at  times 

is  fanned, 
Even  at  noontide,  by  the  cool,  sweet 

airs 
Of  a  serener  and  a  holier  land, 


Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  as  the  dew- 
fall  bland. 
Breath  of  the  blessed  Heaven  for  which 

we  pray, 
Blow  from   the  eternal  hills  !  —  mak« 

glad  our  earthly  way  ! 
%tk  mo.,  1852. 


DERNE.56 

NIGHT  on  the  city  of  the  Moor  ! 

On  mosque  and  tomb,  and  white-walled 

shore, 
On    sea-waves,    to    whose    ceaseless 

knock 

The  narrow  harbor-gates  unlock, 
On  corsair's  galley,  carack  tall, 
And  plundered  Christian  caraval  ! 
The  sounds  of  Moslem  life  are  still ; 
No  mule-bell  tinkles  down  the  hill ; 
Stretched   in  the  broad  court   of  the 

khan, 

The  dusty  Bornou  caravan 
Lies    heaped   in   slumber,   beast    and 

man  ; 

The  Sheik  is  dreaming  in  his  tent, 
His  noisy  Arab  tongue  o'erspent ; 
The  kiosk's  glimmering  lights  are  gone, 
The    merchant  with   his  wares  with 
drawn  ; 

Rough  pillowed  on  some  pirate  breast, 
The  dancing-girl  has  sunk  to  rest  ; 
And,  save   where   measured  footsteps 

fall 

Along  the  Bashaw's  guarded  wall, 
Or  where,  like  some  bad  dream,   the 

Jew 

Creeps  stealthily  his  quarter  through, 
Or  counts  with  fear  his  golden  heaps, 
The  City  of  the  Corsair  sleeps  ! 

But  where  yon  prison  long  and  low 
Stands  black  against  the  pale  star-glow, 
Chafed  by  the  ceaseless  wash  of  waves, 
There  watch   and   pine    the  Christian 

slaves  ;  — 
Rough- bearded     men,     whose     far-off 

wives 

Wear  out  with  grief  their  lonely  lives  ; 
And  youth,  still  flashing  from  his  eyes 
The  clear  blue  of  New  England  skies, 


MIS  CELL  A  NEO  US. 


A  treasured  lock  of  whose  soft  hair 
Now  wakes  some   sorrowing  mother's 

prayer  ; 

Or,  worn  upon  some  maiden  breast, 
Stirs  with  the  loving  heart's  unrest  I 

A  bitter  cup  each  life  must  drain, 
The  groaning  earth  is  cursed  with  pain, 
And,  like  the  scroll  the  angel  bore 
The  shuddering  Hebrew  seer  before, 
O'erwrit  alike,  without,  within, 
With  all  the  woes  which  follow  sin  ; 
But,  bitterest  of  the  ills  beneath 
Whose  load  man  totters  down  to  death, 
Is  that  which  plucks  the  regal  crown 
Of  Freedom  from  his  forehead  clown, 
And  snatches  from  his  powerless  hand 
The  sceptred  sign  of  self-command, 
Effacing  with  the  chain  and  rod 
The  image  and  the  seal  of  God  ; 
Till  from  his  nature,  day  by  day, 
The  manly  virtues  fall  away, 
And  leave  him  naked,  blind  and  mute, 
The  godlike  merging  in  the  brute  ! 

Why  mourn  the  quiet  ones  who  die 
Beneath  affection's  tender  eye, 
Unto  their  household  and  their  kin 
Like  ripened  corn-sheaves  gathered  in? 
O  weeper,  from  that  tranquil  sod, 
That  holy  harvest-home  of  God, 
Turn  to  the  quick  and  suffering,  —  shed 
Thy  tears  upon  the  living  dead  ! 
Thank  God  above  thy  dear  ones'  graves, 
They  sleep  with  Him,  —  they  are  not 
slaves. 

What  dark  mass,  down  the  mountain 
sides 

Swift-pouring,  like  a  stream  divides?  — 
A  long,  loose,  straggling  caravan, 
Camel  and  horse  and  armed  man. 
The  moon's  low  crescent,  glimmering 

o'er 

Its  grave  of  waters  to  the  shore, 
Lights  up  that  mountain  cavalcade, 
And  glints  from  gun   and  spear  and 

blade 
Near  and  more  near  !  —  now  o'er  them 

falls 

The  shadow  of  the  city  walls. 
Hark  to  the  sentry's  challenge,  drowned 
In    the     fierce     trumpet's     charging 
sound !  — 


The  rush  of  men,  the  musket's  peal, 
The    short,    sharp    clang    of  meeting 
steel ! 

Vain,  Moslem,  vain  thy  lifeblood  poured 
So  freely  on  thy  foeman's  sword  ! 
Not  to  the  swift  nor  to  the  strong 
The  battles  of  the  right  belong  ; 
For  he  who  strikes  for  Freedom  wears 
The  armor  of  the  captive's  prayers, 
And  Nature  proffers  to  his  cause 
The  strength  of  her  eternal  laws  ; 
While  he  whose  arm  essays  to  bind 
And  herd  with  common  brutes  his  kind 
Strives  evermore  at  fearful  odds 
With  Nature  and  the  jealous  gods, 
And  dares  the  dread  recoil  which  late 
Or  soon  their  right  shall  vindicate. 

'T  is  done,  —  the  horned  crescent  falls  ! 
The  star-flag  flouts  the  broken  walls  ! 
Joy  to  the  captive  husband  !  joy 
To  thy  sick  heart,  O  brown-locked  boy  ! 
In  sullen  wrath  the  conquered  Moor 
Wide  open  flings  your  dungeon-door, 
And  leaves  ye  free  from  cell  and  chain, 
The  owners  of  yourselves  again. 
Dark  as  his  allies  desert-bom, 
Soiled  with  the  battle's  stain,  and  worn 
With  the  long  marches  of  his  band 
Through  hottest  wastes  of  rock  and 

sand,  — 

Scorched  by  the  sun  and  furnace-breath 
Of  the  red  desert's  wind  of  death, 
With    welcome    words    and    grasping 

hands, 
The  victor  and  deliverer  stands  ! 

The  tale  is  one  of  distant  skier ; 
The  dust  of  half  a  century  lies 
Upon  it ;  yet  its  hero's  name 
Still  lingers  on  the  lips  of  Fame. 
Men  speak  the  praise  of  him  who  gave 
Deliverance  to  the  Moorman's  slave, 
Yet  dare  to  brand  with  shame  and  crime 
The  heroes  of  our  land  and  time,  — 
The  self-forgetful  ones,  who  stake 
Home,  name,  and   life   for  Freedom's 

sake. 

God  mend  his  heart  who  cannot  feel 
The  impulse  of  a  holy  zeal, 
And  sees  not,  with  his  sordid  eyes, 
The  beauty  of  self-sacrifice  ! 


THE   CROSS. 


203 


Though  in  the  sacred  place  he  stands, 

Uplifting  consecrated  hands, 

Unworthy  are  his  lips  to  tell 

Of  Jesus'  martyr-miracle, 

Or  name  aright  that  dread  embrace 

Of  suffering  for  a  fallen  race  ! 


ASTR^A. 

"Jove  means  to  settle 
Astraea  in  her  seat  again, 
And  let  down  from  his  golden  chain 
An  age  of  better  metal." 

BEN  JONSOX,  1615. 

O  POET  rare  and  old  ! 

Thy  words  are  prophecies  ; 
Forward  the  age  of  gold, 

The  new  Saturnian  lies. 

The  universal  prayer 

And  hope  are  not  in  vain  ; 

Rise,  brothers  !  and  prepare 
The  way  for  Saturn's  reign. 

Perish  shall  all  which  takes 
From  labor's  board  and  can  ; 

Perish  shall  all  which  makes 
A  spaniel  of  the  man  ! 

Free  from  its  bonds  the  mind, 

The  body  from  the  rod  ; 
Broken  all  chains  that  bind 

The  image  of  our  God. 

Just  men  no  longer  pine 
Behind  their  prison-bars  ; 

Through  the  rent  dungeon  shine 
The  free  sun  and  the  stars. 

Earth  own,  at  last,  untrod 
By  sect,  or  caste,  or  clan, 

The  fatherhood  of  God, 
The  brotherhood  of  man  ! 

Fraud  fail,  craft  perish,  forth 
The  money-changers  driven, 

And  God's  will  done  on  earth, 
As  now  in  heaven  1 


INVOCATION. 

THROUGH  thy  clear  spaces,  Lord,  of  old, 
Formless  and  voidthe  dead  earth  rolled ; 


Deaf  to  thy  heaven's  sweet  music,  blind 
To  the  great  lights^vhich  o'er  it  shined  ; 
No  sound,  no  ray,  no  warmth,  no 

breath,  — 
A  dumb  despair,  a  wandering  death. 

To  that  dark,  weltering  horror  came 
Thy  spirit,  like  a  subtle  flame,  — 
A  breath  of  life  electrical, 
Awakening  and  transforming  all, 
Till  beat  and  thrilled  in  every  part 
The  pulses  of  a  living  heart. 

Then  knew  their  bounds  the  land  and 

sea  ; 
Then  smiled  the  bloom  of  mead  and 

tree ; 

From  flower  to  moth,  from  beast  to  man, 
The  quick  creative  impulse  ran  ; 
And  earth,  with  life  from  thee  renewed, 
Was  in  thy  holy  eyesight  good. 

As  lost  and  void,  as  dark  and  cold 
And  formless  as  that  earth  of  old,  — 
A  wandering  waste  of  storm  and  night, 
Midst  spheres  of  song  and  realms  of 

light,  — 

A  blot  upon  thy  holy  sky, 
Untouched,  unwarned  of  thee,  am  I. 

O  thou  who  movest  on  the  deep 
Of  spirits,  wake  my  own  from  sleep  ! 
Its  darkness  melt,  its  coldness  warm, 
The  lost  restore,  the  ill  transform, 
That  flower  and  fruit  henceforth  may  be 
Its  grateful  offering,  worthy  thee. 


THE  CROSS. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  RICHARD  DILLING- 
HAM,  IN  THE  NASHVILLE  PENITEN 
TIARY. 

"THE  cross,  if  rightly  borne,  shall  be 
No  burden,  but  support  to  thee  "  ;  * 
So,  moved  of  old  time  for  our  sake, 
The  holy  monk  of  Kempen  spake. 

Thou  brave  and  true  one  !  upon  whom 
Was  laid  the  cross  of  martyrdom, 

*  Thomas  a  Kempis,    Imit.  Christ. 


MIS  CELL  A  NEOUS. 


How  didst  thou,  in  thy  generous  youth, 
Bear  witness  to  thi^blessed  truth  ! 

Thy  cross  of  suffering  and  of  shame 
A  staff  within  thy  hands  became, 
In  paths  where  faith  alone  could  see 
The  Master's  steps  supporting  thee. 

Thine  was  the  seed-time  ;  God  alone 
Beholds  the  end  of  what  is  sown  ; 
Beyond  our  vision,  weak  and  dim, 
The  harvest-time  is  hid  with  Him. 

Yet,  unforgotten  where  it  lies, 
That  seed  of  generous  sacrifice, 
Though  seeming  on  the  desert  cast, 
Shall  rise  with  bloom  and  fruit  at  last. 


EVA. 

DRY  the  tears  for  holy  Eva, 
With  the  blessed  angels  leave  her  ; 
Of  the  form  so  soft  and  fair 
Give  to  earth  the  tender  care. 

For  the  golden  locks  of  Eva 
Let  the  sunny  south-land  give  her 
Flowery  pillow  of  repose,  — 
Orange-bloom  and  budding  rose. 

In  the  better  home  of  Eva 
Let  the  shining  ones  receive  her, 
With  the  welcome-voiced  psalm, 
Harp  of  gold  and  waving  palm  ! 

All  is  light  and  peace  with  Eva ; 
There  the  darkness  cometh  never ; 
Tears  are  wiped,  and  fetters  fall, 
And  the  Lord  is  all  in  all. 

Weep  no  more  for  happy  Eva, 
Wrong  and  sin  no  more  shall  grieve  her 
Care  and  pain  and  weariness 
Lost  in  love  so  measureless. 

Gentle  Eva,  loving  Eva, 
Child  confessor,  true  believer, 
Listener  at  the  Master's  knee, 
"  Suffer  such  to  come  to  me." 

O,  for  faith  like  thine,  sweet  Eva, 
Lighting  all  the  solemn  river, 
And  the  blessings  of  the  poor 
Wafting  to  the  heavenly  shore  ! 


TO   FREDRIKA  BREMER.5T 

SEERESS  of  the  misty  Norland, 
Daughter  of  the  Vikings  bold, 

Welcome  to  the  sunny  Vineland, 
Which  thy  fathers  sought  of  old  ! 

Soft  as  flow  of  Silja's  waters, 
When  the  moon  of  summer  shines, 

Strong  as  Winter  from  his  mountains 
Roaring  through  the  sleeted  pines. 

Heart  and  ear,  we  long  have  listened 
To  thy  saga,  rune,  and  song, 

As  a  household  joy  and  presence 
We  have  known  and  loved  thee  long. 

By  the  mansion's  marble  mantel, 
Round  the  log-walled  cabin's  hearth, 

Thy  sweet  thoughts  andnorthern fancies 
Meet  and  mingle  with  our  mirth. 

And  o'er  weary  spirits  keeping 

Sorrow's  night-watch,  long  and  chill, 

Shine  they  like  thy  sun  of  summer 
Over  midnight  vale  and  hill. 

We  alone  to  thee  are  strangers, 
Thou  our  friend  and  teacher  art ; 

Come,  and  know  us  aj  we  know  thee  ; 
Let  us  meet  thee  heart  to  heart ! 

To  our  homes  and  household  altars 
We,  in  turn,  thy  steps  would  lead, 

As  thy  loving  hand  has  led  us 
O'er  the  threshold  of  the  Swede. 


APRIL. 

"  The  spring  comes  slowly  tip  this  way." 
Christabel. 

'T  is  the  noon  of  the  spring-time,  yet 

never  a  bird 
In  the  wind-shaken  elm  or  the  maple  is 

heard  ; 
For  green  meadow-grasses  wide  levels 

of  snow, 
And  blowing  of  drifts  where  the  crocus 

should  blow ; 
Where  wind-flower  and  violet,  amber 

and  white, 
On    south-sloping    brooksides    should 

smile  in  the  light, 


STANZAS  FOR    THE    TIMES. 


O'er  the  cold  winter-beds  of  their  late- 
waking  roots 

The  frosty  flake  eddies,  the  ice-crystal 
shoots ; 

And,  longing  for  light,  under  wind- 
driven  heaps, 

Round  the  boles  of  the  pine-wood  the 
ground-laurel  creeps, 

Unkissed  of  the  sunshine,  unbaptized 
of  showers, 

With  buds  scarcely  swelled,  which 
should  burst  into  flowers  ! 

We  wait  for  thy  coming,  sweet  wind  of 
the  south  ! 

For  the  touch  of  thy  light  wings,  the 
kiss  of  thy  mouth  ; 

For  the  yearly  evangel  thou  bearest 
from  God, 

Resurrection  and  life  to  the  graves  of 
the  sod  ! 

Up  our  long  river-valley,  for  days,  have 
not  ceased 

The  wail  and  the  shriek  of  the  bitter 
northeast,  — 

Raw  and  chill,  as  if  winnowed  through 
ices  and  snow, 

All  the  way  from  the  land  of  the  wild 
Esquimau,  — 

Until  all  our  dreams  of  the  land  of  the 
blest, 

Like  that  red  hunter's,  turn  to  the  sunny 
southwest. 

O  soul  of  the  spring-time,  its  light  and 
its  breath, 

Bring  warmth  to  this  coldness,  bring 
life  to  this  death  ; 

Renew  the  great  miracle ;  let  us  be 
hold 

The  stone  from  the  mouth  of  the  sepul 
chre  rolled, 

And  Nature,  like  Lazarus,  rise,  as  of 
old! 

Let  our  faith,  which  in  darkness  and 
coldness  has  lain, 

Revive  with  the  warmth  and  the  bright 
ness  again, 

And  in  blooming  of  flower  and  budding 
of  tree 

The  symbols  and  types  of  our  destiny 
see ; 

The  life  of  the  spring-time,  the  life  of 
the  whole, 

And,  as  sun  to  the  sleeping  earth,  love 
to  the  saul ! 


STANZAS   FOR  THE  TIMES. 

1850. 

THE  evil  days  have  come,  — the  poor 

Are  made  a  prey  ; 
Bar  up  the  hospitable  door, 
Put  out  the  fire-lights,  point  no  more 

The  wanderer's  way. 

For  Pity  now  is  crime  ;  the  chain 

Which  binds  our  States 
Is  melted  at  her  hearth  in  twain, 
Is  rusted  by  her  tears'  soft  rain  : 

Close  up  her  gates. 

Our  Union,  like  a  glacier  stirred 

By  voice  below, 

Or  bell  of  kine,  or  wing  of  bird, 
A  beggar's  crust,  a  kindly  word 

May  overthrow  ! 

Poor,  whispering  tremblers  !  —  yet  we 

boast 

Our  blood  and  name ; 
Bursting  its  century-bolted  frost, 
Each  gray  cairn  on  the  Northman's 

coast 
Cries  out  for  shame  ! 

0  for  the  open  firmament, 

The  prairie  free, 
The  desert  hillside,  cavern-rent, 
The  Pawnee's  lodge,  the  Arab's  tent, 

The  Bushman's  tree  ! 

Than  web  of  Persian  loom  most  rare, 

Or  soft  divan, 

Better  the  rough  rock,  bleak  and  bare, 
Or  hollow  tree,  which  man  may  share 

With  suffering  man. 

1  hear  a  voice  :  "Thus  saith  the  Law, 

Let  Love  be  dumb  ; 
Clasping  her  liberal  hands  in  awe, 
Let  sweet-lipped  Charity  withdraw 

From  hearth  and  home." 

I  hear  another  voice  :  "The  poor 

Are  thine  to  feed  ; 
Turn  not  the  outcast  from  thy  door, 
Nor  give  to  bonds  and  wrong  once  more 

Whom  God  hath  freed." 


206 


MI SC ELL  A  NEOUS. 


Dear  Lord  !  between  that  law  and  thee 

No  choice  remains  ; 
Yet  not  untrue  to  man's  decree, 
Though  spurning  its  rewards,  is  he 

Who  bears  its  pains. 

Not  mine  Sedition's  trumpet-blast 

And  threatening  word  ; 
I  read  the  lesson  of  the  Past, 
That  firm  endurance  wins  at  last 

More  than  the  sword. 

O  clear-eyed  Faith,  and  Patience,  thou 

So  calm  and  strong  ! 
Lend  strength  to  weakness,  teach  us 

how 
The  sleepless  eyes  of  God  look  through 

This  night  of  wrong  ! 


A   SABBATH   SCENE. 

SCARCE  had  the  solemn  Sabbath-bell 
Ceased  quivering  in  the  steeple, 

Scarce  had  the  parson  to  his  desk 
Walked  stately  through  his  people, 

When  down  the  summer-shaded  street 

A  wasted  female  figure, 
With  dusky  brow  and  naked  feet, 

Came  rushing  wild  and  eager. 

She  saw  the  white  spire  through  the 
trees, 

She  heard  the  sweet  hymn  swelling  : 
O  pitying  Christ  !  a  refuge  give 

That  poor  one  in  thy  dwelling  ! 

Like  a  scared  fawn  before  the  hounds, 
Right  up  the  aisle  she  glided, 

While  close  behind  her,  whip  in  hand, 
A  lank-haired  hunter  strided. 

She  raised  a  keen  and  bitter  cry, 

To  Heaven  and  Earth  appealing  :  — 

Were  manhood's  generous  pulses  dead? 
Had  woman's  heart  no  feeling  ? 

A  score  of  stout  hands  rose  between 
The  hunter  and  the  flying  : 

Age  clenched  his  staff,  and  maiden  eyes 
Flashed  tearful,  yet  defying. 


"  Who  dares  profane  this  house  and 

day?" 

Cried  out  the  angry  pastor. 
"  Why,  bless  your  soul,  the  wench  's  a 

"slave, 
And  1  'm  her  lord  and  master  ! 

"  I  Ve  law  and  gospel  on  my  side, 
And  who  shall  dare  refuse  me  ?  " 

Down  came  the  parson,  bowing  low, 
"  My  good  sir,  pray  excuse  me  ! 

"  Of  course  I  know  your  right  divine 
To  own  and  work  and  whip  her  ; 

Quick,  deacon,  throw  that  Polyglott 
Before  the  wench,  and  trip  her  ! " 

Plump  dropped  the  holy  tome,  and  o'er 
Its  sacred  pages  stumbling, 

Bound  hand  and  foot,  a  slave  once  more, 
The  hapless  wretch  lay  trembling. 

I  saw  the  parson  tie  the  knots, 
The  while  his  flock  addressing, 

The  Scriptural  claims  of  slavery 
With  text  on  text  impressing. 

"  Although,"  said  he,  "  on  Sabbath  day, 

All  secular  occupations 
Are  deadly  sins,  we  must  fulfil 

Our  moral  obligations : 

"  And  tliis  commends  itself  as  one 
To  every  conscience  tender ; 

As  Paul  sent  back  Onesimus, 

My  Christian  friends,  we  send  her  !  " 

Shriek  rose  on  shriek,  —  the  Sabbath  air 
Her  wild  cries  tore  asunder; 

I  listened,  with  hushed  breath,  to  hear 
God  answering  with  his  thunder  ! 

All  still  !  —  the  very  altar's  cloth 

Had  smothered  down  her  shriek'^g, 

And,  dumb,   she   turned  from  face  to 

face, 
For  human  pity  seeking  ! 

I  saw  her  dragged  along  the  aisle, 
Her  shnck'es  harshly  clanking  ; 

I  heard  the  parson,  over  all, 
The  Lord  devoutly  thinking  ! 


RE  MEMBRA  NCE. 


207 


My  brain  took  fire  :  "  Is  this,"  I  cried, 
"The  end  of  prayer  and  preaching? 

Then   down   with  pulpit,    down    with 

priest, 
And  give  us  Nature's  teaching  I 

"  Foul  shame  and  scorn  be  on  ye  all 

Who  turn  the  good  to  evil, 
And  steal  the  Bible  from  the  Lord, 

To  give  it  to  the  Devil  1 

"  Than  garbled  text  or  parchment  law 

I  own  a  statute  higher ; 
And  God  is  true,  though  every  book 

And  every  man  's  a  liar  ! " 

Just  then  I  felt  the  deacon's  hand 
In  wrath  my  coat-tail  seize  on  ; 

I  heard  the  priest  cry,  "  Infidel  !  " 
The  lawyer  mutter,  "  Treason  !  " 

I  started  up, —  where  now  were  church, 
Slave,  master,  priest,  and  people  ? 

I  only  heard  the  supper-bell, 
Instead  of  clanging  steeple. 

But,  on  the  open  window's  sill, 

O'er  which  the  white  blooms  drifted, 

The  pages  of  a  good  old  Book 
The  wind  of  summer  lifted. 

And  flower  and  vine,  like  angel  wings 

Around  the  Holy  Mother, 
Waved  softly  there,  as  if  God's  truth 

And  Mercy  kissed  each  other. 

And  freely  from  the  cherry-bough 
Above  the  casement  swinging, 

With  golden  bosom  to  the  sun, 
The  oriole  was  singing. 

As  bird  and  flower  made  plain  of  old 

The  lesson  of  the  Teacher, 
So  now  I  heard  the  written  Word 

Interpreted  by  Nature  ! 

For  to  my  ear  methought  the  breeze 
Bore  Freedom's  blessed  word  on  ; 

THUS     SAITH     THE     LORD  :        BREAK 

EVERY   YOKE, 
UNDO   THE   HEAVY   BURDEN  I 


REMEMBRANCE. 

WITH  COPIES  OF   THE  AUTHOR'S  WRIT 
INGS. 

FRIEND  of  mine  !  whose  lot  was  cast 
With  me  in  the  distant  past,  — 
Where,  like  shadows  flitting  fast, 

Fact  and  fancy,  thought  and  theme, 
Word  and  work,  begin  to  seem 
Like  a  half-remembered  dream  ! 

Touched  by  change  have  all  thingsbeen, 
Yet  I  think  of  thee  as  when 
We  had  speech  of  lip  and  pen. 

For  the  calm  thy  kindness  lent 
To  a  path  of  discontent, 
Rough  with  trial  and  dissent ; 

Gentle  words  where  such  were  few, 
Softening  blame  where  blame  was  true, 
Praising  where  small  praise  was  due ; 

For  a  waking  dream  made  good, 

For  an  ideal  understood, 

For  thy  Christian  womanhood  ; 

For  thy  marvellous  gift  to  cull 
From  our  common  life  and  dull 
Whatsoe'er  is  beautiful ; 

Thoughts  and  fancies,  Hybla's  bees 
Dropping  sweetness  ;  true  heart's-ease 
Of  congenial  sympathies  ;  — 

Still  for  these  I  own  my  debt ; 
Memory,  with  her  eyelids  wet, 
Fain  would  thank  thee  even  yet ! 

And  as  one  who  scatters  flowers 
Where  the  Queen  of  May's  sweet  hours 
Sits,  o'ertwined  with  blossomed  bowers, 

In  superfluous  zeal  bestowing 
Gifts  where  gifts  are  overflowing, 
So  I  pay  the  debt  I  'm  owing. 

To  thy  full  thoughts,  gay  or  sad, 
Sunny-hued  or  sober  clad, 
Something  of  my  own  I  add  ; 

Well  assured  that  thou  wilt  take 
Even  the  offering  which  1  make 
Kindly  for  the  giver's  sake. 


203 


MIS  CELL  A  NEOUS. 


THE  POOR  VOTER  ON  ELEC 
TION  DAY. 

THE  proudest  now  is  but  my  peer, 

The  highest  not  more  high  ; 
To-day,  of  all  the  weary  year, 

A  king  of  men  am  I. 
To-day,  alike  are  great  and  small, 

The  nameless  and  the  known  ; 
My  palace  is  the  people's  hall, 

The  ballot-box  my  throne  ! 

Who  serves  to-day  upon  the  list 

Beside  the  served  shall  stand  ; 
Alike  the  brown  and  wrinkled  fist, 

The  gloved  and  dainty  hand  ! 
The  rich  is  level  with  the  poor, 

The  weak  is  strong  to-day  ; 
And  sleekest  broadcloth  counts  no  more 

Than  homespun  frock  of  gray. 

To-day  let  pomp  and  vain  pretence 

My  stubborn  right  abide  ; 
I  set  a  plain  man's  common  sense 

Against  the  pedant's  pride. 
To-day  shall  simple  manhood  try 

The  strength  of  gold  and  land  ; 
The  wide  world  has  not  wealth  to  buy 

The  power  in  my  right  hand  ! 

While  there's  a  grief  to  seek  redress, 

Or  balance  to  adjust, 
Where  weighs  our  living  manhood  less 

Than  Mammon's  vilest  dust,  — 
While  there  's  a  right  to  need  my  vote, 

A  wrong  to  sweep  away, 
Up  !  clouted  knee  and  ragged  coat  ! 

A  man 's  a  man  to-day  ! 


TRUST. 

THE  same  old  baffling  questions  !  O 
my  friend, 

I  cannot  answer  them.     In  vain  I  send 

My  soul  into  the  dark,  where  never  burn 
The  lamps  of  science,  nor  the  natu 
ral  light 

Of  Reason's  sun  and  stars  !  I  cannot 
learn 

Their  great  and  solemn  meanings,  nor 
discern 

The  awful  secrets  of  the  eyes  which  turn 


Evermore  on  us  through  the  day  and 

night 
With  silent  challenge  and  a  dumb 

demand, 

Proffering  the  riddles  of  the  dread  un 
known, 
Like  the  calm  Sphinxes,  with  their  eyes 

of  stone, 
Questioning  the  centuries  from  their 

veils  of  sand  ! 

I  have  no  answer  for  myself  or  thee, 
Save  that  I  learned  beside  my  mother's 

knee  ; 

"  All  is  of  God  that  is,  and  is  to  be  ; 
And  God  is  good."     Let  this  suffice 

us  still, 
Resting  in  childlike  trust  upon  his 

will 

Who  moves  to  his  great  ends  unthwart- 
ed  by  the  ill. 


KATHLEENS 

O  NORAH,  lay  your  basket  down, 

And  rest  your  weary  hand, 
And  come  and  hear  me  sing  a  song 

Of  our  old  Ireland. 

There  was  a  lord  of  Galaway, 

A  mighty  lord  was  he  ; 
And  he  did  wed  a  second  wife, 

A  maid  of  low  degree. 

But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And  so,  in  evil  spite, 
She  baked  the  black  bread  for  his  kin, 

And  fed  her  own  with  white. 

She  whipped  the  maids  and  starved  the 
kern, 

And  drove  away  the  poor  ; 
"  Ah,  woe  is  me  !  "  the  old  lord  said, 

"  I  rue  my  bargain  sore  !  " 

This  lord  he  had  a  daughter  fair, 

Beloved  of  old  and  young, 
And  nightly  round  the  shealing-fires 

Of  her  the  gleeman  sung. 

"  As  sweet  and  good  is  young  Kathleen 

As  Eve  before  her  fall  "  ; 
So  sang  the  harper  at  the  fair, 

So  harped  he  in  the  hall. 


KA  THLEEN. 


209 


"  O  come  to  me,  my  daughter  dear  ! 

Come  sit  upon  my  knee, 
For  looking  in  your  face,  Kathleen, 

Your  mother's  own  I  see  !  " 

He  smoothed  and  smoothed  her  hair 
away, 

He  kissed  her  forehead  fair ; 
"'  It  is  my  darling  Mary's  brow, 

It  is  my  darling's  hair  !  " 

O,  then  spake  up  the  angry  dame, 
"  Get  up,  get  up,"  quoth  she, 

"  I  '11  sell  ye  over  Ireland, 
I  '11  sell  ye  o'er  the  sea  ! " 

She  clipped  her  glossy  hair  away, 

That  none  her  rank  might  know, 
"  She  took  away  her  gown  of  silk, 
And  gave  her  one  of  tow, 

And  sent  her  down  to  Limerick  town, 

And  to  a  seaman  sold 
This  daughter  of  an  Irish  lord 

For  ten  good  pounds  in  gold. 

The  lord  he  smote  upon  his  breast, 
And  tore  his  beard  so  gray  ; 

But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 
And  so  she  had  her  way. 

Sure  that    same    night    the    Banshee 
howled 

To  fright  the  evil  dame, 
And  fairy  folks,  who  loved  Kathleen, 

With  funeral  torches  came. 

She  watched  them  glancing  through  the 
trees, 

And  glimmering  down  the  hill ; 
They  crept  before  the  dead-vault  door, 

And  there  they  all  stood  still ! 

"  Get  up,   old  man  !   the  wake-lights 

shine  !  " 

"Ye  murthering  witch,"  quoth  he, 
"  So  I  'in  rid  of  your  tongue,  I   little 

care 
If  they  shine  for  you  or  me." 

"  O,  whoso  brings  my  daughter  back, 
My  gold  and  land  shall  have  !  " 

O,  then  spake  up  his  handsome  page, 
"  No  gold  nor  land  I  crave  ! 
14 


"  But  give  to  me  your  daughter  dear, 
Give  sweet  Kathleen  to  me, 

Be  she  on  sea  or  be  she  on  land, 
I  '11  bring  her  back  to  thee." 

"  My  daughter  is  a  lady  born, 

And  you  of  low  degree, 
But  she  shall  be  your  bride  the  day 

You  bring  her  back  to  me." 

He  sailed  east,  he  sailed  west, 
And  far  and  long  sailed  he, 

Until  he  came  to  Boston  town, 
Across  the  great  salt  sea. 

"  O,  have  ye  seen  the  young  Kathleen, 

The  flower  of  Ireland  ? 
Ye  '11  know  her  by  her  eyes  so  blue, 

And  by  her  snow-white  hand  !  " 

Out  spake  an  ancient  man,  "  I  know 
The  maiden  whom  ye  mean  ; 

I  bought  her  of  a  Limerick  man, 
And  she  is  called  Kathleen. 

"  No  skill  hath  she  in  household  work. 
Her  hands  are  soft  and  white, 

Yet  well  by  loving  looks  and  ways 
She  doth  her  cost  requite," 

So  up  they  walked  through  Boston  town, 

And  met  a  maiden  fair, 
A  little  basket  on  her  arm 

So  snowy-white  and  bare. 

"  Come  hither,  child,  and  say  hast  thou 
This  young  man  ever  seen  ?  " 

They  wept  within  each  other's  arms, 
The  page  and  young  Kathleen. 

"  O  give  to  me  this  darling  child, 
And  take  my  purse  of  gold." 

"  Nay,  not  by  me,"  her  master  said, 
"  Shall  sweet  Kathleen  be  sold. 

"  We  loved  her  in  the  place  of  one 
The  Lord  hath  early  ta'en  ; 

But,  since  her  heart 's  in  Ireland, 
We  give  her  back  again  !  " 

O,  for  that  same  the  saints  in  heaven 
For  his  poor  soul  shall  pray, 

And  Mary  Mother  wash  with  tears 
His  heresies  away. 


MIS  CELL  ANEO  US. 


Sure  now  they  dwell  in  Ireland, 

As  you  go  up  Claremore 
Ye  '11  see  their  castle  looking  down 

The  pleasant  Galway  shore. 

And  the   old  lord's  wife  is  dead  and 
gone, 

And  a  happy  man  is  he, 
For  he  sits  beside  his  own  Kathleen, 

With  her  darling  on  his  knee. 


FIRST-DAY  THOUGHTS. 

IN  calm  and  cool  and  silence,  once  again 
I  find  my  old  accustomed  place  among 
My  brethren,  where,  perchance,  no 

human  tongue 
Shall     utter    words;    where     never 

hymn   is  sung, 
Nor   deep-toned  organ   blown,   nor 

censer  swung, 

Nor  dim  light  falling  through  the  pic 
tured  pane  ! 

There,  syllabled  by  silence,  let  me  hear 
The  still  small  voice  which  reached 

the  prophet's  ear ; 
Read  in  my  heart  a  still  diviner  law 
Than  Israel's  leader  on  his  tables  saw  ! 
There  let  me  strive  with  each  besetting 

sin, 
Recall  my  wandering    fancies,   and 

restrain 

The  sore  disquiet  of  a  restless  brain  ; 
And,  as  the  path  of  duty  is  made 

plain, 
May  grace  be  given  that  I  may  walk 

therein, 
Not  like  the  hireling,  for  his  selfish 

gain, 
With  backward  glances  and  reluctant 

tread, 

Making  a  merit  of  his  coward  dread,  — 
But,  cheerful,  in  the  light  around  me 

thrown, 
Walking  as  one  to  pleasant  service 

led  ; 
Doing  God's  will  as  if  it  were  my 

own, 

Yet  trusting  not  in  mine,  but  in  his 
strength  alone  ! 


KOSSUTH.59 

TYPE  of   two    mighty    continents  !  — 

combining 

The   strength   of   Europe  with   the 
warmth  and  glow 

Of  Asian  song  and  prophecy,  —  the 

shining 

Of  Orient  splendors  over  Northern 
snow  ! 

Who    shall   receive   him?    Who,   un 
blushing,  speak 

Welcome  to  him,  who,  while  he  strove 
to  break 

The  Austrian  yoke  from  Magyar  necks, 
smote  off 

At  the  same  blow  the  fetters  of  the 
_  serf,  — 

Rearing  the  altar  of  his  Father-land 
On  the  firm  base   of  freedom,   and 
thereby 

Lifting  to  Heaven  a  patriot's  stainless 

hand, 

Mocked  not  the  God  of  Justice  with 
a  lie! 

Who  shall  be  Freedom's  mouth-piece  ? 
Who  shall  give 

Her  welcoming  cheer  to  the  great  fugi 
tive  ? 

Not  he  who,  all  her  sacred  trusts  be 
traying, 
Is  scourging  back  to  slavery's  hell  of 

pain 

The  swarthy   Kossuths  of  our  land 
again  ! 

Not  he  whose  utterance  now  from  lips 
designed 

The  bugle-march  of  Liberty  to  wind, 

And  call  her  hosts  beneath  the  break 
ing  light,  — 

The    keen    reveille    of  her    morn    of 

fight,-     N 

Is  but  the  hoarse  note  of  the  blood 
hound's  baying, 

The  wolfs  long  howl  behind  the  bond 
man's  flight  ! 

O  for  the  tongue  of  him  who  lies  at 

rest 

In    Quincy's    shade   of  patrimonial 
trees,  — 

Last  of  the  Puritan  tribunes  and  the 

best, — 

To  lend  a  voice  to  Freedom's  sym 
pathies, 


TO  MY  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER. 


And  hail   the  coming  of  the  noblest 

guest 
The  Old  World's  wrong  has  given  the 

New  World  of  the  West ! 


TO  MY  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER. 

AN  EPISTLE    NOT    AFTER     THE     MAN 
NER  OF    HORACE. 

OLD  friend,  kind  friend  !  lightly  down 
Drop  time'ssnow-flakeson  thycrown ! 
Never  be  thy  shadow  less, 
Never  fail  thy  cheerfulness  ; 
Care,  that  kills  the  cat,  may  plough 
Wrinkles  in  the  miser's  brow, 
Deepen  envy's  spiteful  frown, 
Draw  the  mouths  of  bigots  down, 
Plague  ambition's  dream,  and  sit 
Heavy  on  the  hypocrite, 
Haunt  the  rich  man's  door,  and  ride 
In  the  gilded  coach  of  pride  ;  — 
Let  the  fiend  pass  !  —  what  can  he 
Find  to  do  with  such  as  thee? 
Seldom  comes  that  evil  guest 
Where  the  conscience  lies  at  rest, 
And  brown  health  and  quiet  wit 
Smiling  on  the  threshold  sit. 

I,  the  urchin  unto  whom, 
In  that  smoked  and  dingy  room, 
Where  the  district  gave  thee  rule 
O'er  its  ragged  winter  school, 
Thou  didst  teach  the  mysteries 
Of  those  weary  A  B  C's,  — 
Where,  to  fill  the  every  pause 
Of  thy  wise  and  learned  saws, 
Through  the  cracked  and  crazy  wall 
Came  the  cradle-rock  and  squall, 
And  the  goodman's  voice,  at  strife 
With  his  shrill  and  tipsy  wife,  — 
Luring  us  by  stories  old, 
With  a  comic  unction  told, 
More  than  by  the  eloquence 
Of  terse  birchen  arguments 
(Doubtful  gain,  I  fear),  to  look 
With  complacence  on  a  book  !  — 
Where  the  genial  pedagogue 
Half  forgot  his  rogues  to  flog, 
Citing  tale  or  apologue, 
Wise  and  merry  in  its  drift 
As  old  Phsedrus'  twofold  gift, 


Had  the  little  rebels  known  it, 
jRz'sum  et  pmdentiam  monet  ! 
I,  —  the  man  of  middle  years, 
In  whose  sable  locks  appears 
Many  a  warning  fleck  of  gray,  — 
Looking  back  to  that  far  day, 
And  thy  primal  lessons,  feel 
Grateful  smiles  my  lips  unseal, 
As,  remembering  thee,  I  blend 
Olden  teacher,  present  friend, 
Wise  with  antiquarian  search, 
In  the  scrolls  of  State  and  Church ; 
Named  on  history's  title-page, 
Parish-clerk  and  justice  sage  ; 
For  the  ferule's  wholesome  awe 
Wielding  now  the  sword  of  law. 

Threshing  Time's  neglected  sheaves, 
Gathering  up  the  scattered  leaves 
Which  the  wrinkled  sibyl  cast 
Careless  from  her  as  she  passed,  — 
Twofold  citizen  art  thou, 
Freeman  of  the  past  and  now. 
He  who  bore  thy  name  of  old 
Midway  in  the  heavens  did  hold 
Over  Gibeon  moon  and  sun  ; 
y^whastbiddenthembackwardrun; 
Of  to-day  the  present  ray 
Flinging  over  yesterday ! 

Let  the  busy  ones  deride 
What  I  deem  of  right  thy  pride  ; 
Let  the  fools  their  tread-mills  grind, 
Look  not  forward  nor  behind, 
Shuffle  in  and  wriggle  out, 
Veer  with  every  breeze  about, 
Turning  like  a  windmill  sail, 
Or  a  dog  that  seeks  his  tail ; 
Let  them  laugh  to  see  thee  fast 
Tabernacled  in  the  Past, 
Working  out  with  eye  and  lip, 
Riddles  of  old  penmanship, 
Patient  as  Belzoni  there 
Sorting  out,  with  loving  care, 
Mummies  of  dead  questions  stripped 
From  their  sevenfold  manuscript ! 

Dabbling,  in  their  noisy  way, 

In  the  puddles  of  to-day, 

Little  know  they  of  that  vast 

Solemn  ocean  of  the  past, 

On  whose  margin,  wreck-bespread, 

Thou  art  walking  with  the  dead, 


MI  SC ELL  A  NEOUS. 


Questioning  the  stranded  years, 

Waking  smiles,  by  turns,  and  tears, 

As  thou  callest  up  again 

Shapes  the  dust  has  long  o'erlain,  — 

Fair-haired  woman,  bearded  man, 

Cavalier  and  Puritan  ; 

In  an  age  whose  eager  view 

Seeks  but  present  things,  and  new, 

Mad  for  party,  sect,  and  gold, 

Teaching  reverence  for  the  old. 

On  that  shore,  with  fowler's  tact, 
Coolly  bagging  fact  on  fact, 
Naught  amiss  to  thee  can  float, 
Tale,  or  song,  or  anecdote  ; 
Village  gossip,  centuries  old, 
Scandals  by  our  grandams  told, 
What  the  pilgrim's  table  spread, 
Where  he  lived,  and  whom  he  wed, 
Long-drawn  bill  of  wine  and  beer 
For  his  ordination  cheer, 
Or  the  flip  that  wellnigh  made 
Glad  his  funeral  cavalcade  ; 
Weary  prose,  and  poet's  lines, 
Flavored  by  their  age,  like  wines, 
Eulogistic  of  some  quaint, 
Doubtful,  puritanic  saint ; 
Lays  that  quickened  husking  jigs, 
Jests  that  shook  grave  periwigs, 
When  the  parson  had  his  jokes 
And  his  glass,  like  other  folks ; 
Sermons  that,  for  mortal  hours, 
Taxed  our  fathers'  vital  powers, 
As  the  long  nineteenthlies  poured 
Downward  from  the  sounding-board, 
And,  for  fire  of  Pentecost, 
Touched  their  beards  December's  frost. 

Time  is  hastening  on,  and  we 
What  our  fathers  are  shall  be,  — 
Shadow-shapes  of  memory ! 
Joined  to  that  vast  multitude 
Where  the  great  are  but  the  good, 
And  the  mind  of  strength  shall  prove 
Weaker  than  the  heart  of  love  ; 
Pride  of graybeard  wisdom  less 
Than  the  infant's  guilelessness, 
And  his  song  of  sorrow  more 
Than  the  crown  the  Psalmist  wore  ! 
Who  shall  then,  with  pious  zeal, 
At  our  moss-grown  thresholds  kneel, 
From  a  stained  and  stony  page 
Reading  to  a  careless  age, 


With  a  patient  eye  like  thine, 
Prosing  tale  and  limping  line, 
Names  and  words  the  hoary  rime 
Of  the  Past  has  made  sublime? 
Who  shall  work  for  us  as  well 
The  antiquarian's  miracle? 
Who  to  seeming  life  recall 
Teacher  grave  and  pupil  small? 
Who  shall  give  to  thee  and  me 
Freeholds  in  futurity  ? 

Well,  whatever  lot  be  mine, 
Long  and  happy  days  be  thine, 
Ere  thy  full  and  honored  age 
Dates  of  time  its  latest  page  ! 
Squire  for  master,  State  for  school. 
Wisely  lenient,  live  and  rule  ; 
Over  grown-up  knave  and  rogue 
Play  the  watchful  pedagogue;' 
Or,  while  pleasure  smiles  on  duty, 
At  the  call  of  youth  and  beauty, 
Speak  for  them  the  spell  of  law 
Which  shall  bar  and  b.olt  withdraw, 
And  the  flaming  sword  remove 
From  the  Paradise  of  Love. 
Still,  with  undimmed  eyesight,  pore 
Ancient  tome  and  record  o'er  ; 
Still  thy  week-day  lyrics  croon, 
Pitch  in  church  the  Sunday  tune, 
Showing  something,  in  thy  part, 
Of  the  old  Puritanic  art, 
Singer  after  Sternhold's  heart ! 
In  thy  pew,  for  many  a  year, 
Homilies  from  Oldbug  hear,60 
Who  to  wit  like  that  of  South, 
And  the  Syrian's  golden  mouth, 
Doth  the  homely  pathos  add 
Which  the  pilgrim  preachers  had ; 
Breaking,  like  a  child  at  play, 
Gilded  idols  of  the  day, 
Cant  of  knave  and  pomp  of  fool 
Tossing  with  his  ridicule, 
Yet,  in  earnest  or  in  jest, 
Ever  keeping  truth  abreast. 
And,  when  thou  art  called,  at  last, 
To  thy  townsmen  of  the  past, 
Not  as  stranger  shalt  thou  come  ; 
Thou  shalt  find  thyself  at  home  ! 
With  the  little  and'  the  big, 
Woollen  cap  and  periwig, 
Madam  in  her  high-laced  ruff, 
Goody  in  her  home-made  stuff,  — 
Wise  and  simple,  rich  and  poor, 
Thou  hast  known  them  all  before  I 


THE    PANORAMA, 

AND 

OTHER    POEMS. 

1856. 


1  c  A  !  fredome  is  a  nobill  thing  ! 
Fredome  mayse  man  to  haif  liking. 
Fredome  all  solace  to  man  giffis  ; 
He  levys  at  ese  that  frely  levys  ! 
A  nobil  hart  may  haif  nane  ese 
Na  ellys  nocht  that  may  him  plese 
Gyff  Fredome  failythe." 

ARCHDEACON  BARBOUR. 


THE    PANORAMA. 


THROUGH  the  long  hall  the  shuttered 

windows  shed 
A  dubious    light  on  every   upturned 

head,  — 

On  locks  like  those  of  Absalom  the  fair, 
On  the  bald  apex  ringed  with  scanty 

hair, 
On  blank  indifference  and  on  curious 

stare  ; 
On  the  pale  Showman  reading  from  his 

stage 

The  hieroglyphics  of  that  facial  page  ; 
Half  sad,  half  scornful,  listening  to  th< 


bruit 


he 


Of  restless  cane-tap  and  impatient  foot, 
And  the  shrill  call,  across  the  general 

din, 
"  Roll  up  your  curtain  !     Let  the  show 

begin  !  " 

At  length  a  murmur  like  the  winds 

that  break 
Into  green  waves  the  prairie's  grassy 

lake, 
Deepened  and  swelled  to  music  clear 

and  loud, 
And,  as  the  west-wind  lift's  a  summer 

cloud, 

The  curtain  rose,  disclosing  wide  and  far 
A  green,  land  stretching  to  the  evening 

star, 

Fair  rivers,  skirted  by  primeval  trees 
And  flowers  hummed  over  by  the  des 
ert  bees, 
Marked  by  tall  bluffs  whose  slopes  of 

greenness  show 

Fantastic  outcrops  of  the  rock  below, — 
The   slow  result  of  patient   Nature's 

pains, 
And  plastic  fingering  of  her  sun  and 

rains,  — 


Arch,    tower,    and    gate,    grotesquely 

windowed  hall, 
And  long  escarpment  of  half-crumbled 

wall, 
Huger  than  those  which,  from  steep 

hills  of  vine, 
Stare  through  their  loopholes  on   the 

travelled  Rhine  ; 

Suggesting  vaguely  to  the  gazer's  mind 
A  fancy,  idle  as  the  prairie  wind, 
Of  the  land's  dwellers  in  an  age  un- 

guessed,  — 
The    unsung    Jotuns    of    the    mystic 

West. 

Beyond,  the  prairie's  sea-like  swells 

surpass 
The  Tartar's  marvels  of  his  Land  of 

Grass, 
Vast  as  the  sky  against  whose  sunset 

shores 
Wave  after  wave  the  billowy  greenness 

pours ; 
And,  onward  still,  like  islands  in  that 

main 
Loom  the    rough    peaks  of  many  a 

mountain  chain, 
Whence    east    and  west    a    thousand 

waters  run 

From    winter    lingering    under    sum 
mer's  sun. 
And,  still  beyond,  long  lines  of  foam 

and  sand 
Tell    where    Pacific    rolls    his    waves 

a-land, 
From  many  a  wide-lapped  port  and 

land-locked  bay, 
Opening  with   thunderous    pomp   the 

world's  highway 
To  Indian  isles  of  spice,  and  marts  of 

far  Cathay. 


2l6 


THE  PANORAMA. 


"  Such,"  said  the  Showman,  as  the 

curtain  fell, 

"  Is  the  new  Canaan  of  our  Israel,  — 
The  land  of  promise  to  the  swarming 

North, 

Which,  hive-like,  sends  its  annual  sur 
plus  forth, 
To  the  poor  Southron  on  his  worn-out 

soil, 

Scathed  by  the  curses  of  unnatural  toil ; 
To  Europe's  exiles  seeking  home  and 

rest, 
And  the  lank  nomads  of  the  wandering 

West, 
Who,  asking  neither,  in  their  love  of 

change 

And  the  free  bison's  amplitude  of  range, 
Rear  the  log  hut,  for  present  shelter 

meant, 
Notfuture  comfort,  like  an  Arab's  tent" 

Then  spake  a  shrewd    on  -  looker, 

"  Sir,"  said  he, 

"  I  like  your  picture,  but  I  fain  would  see 
A  sketch  of  what  your  promised  land 

will  be 

When,  with  electric  nerve,  and  fiery- 
brained, 
With   Nature's    forces  to    its-  chariot 

chained, 

The  future  grasping,  by  the  past  obeyed, 
The   twentieth   century  rounds  a  new 
decade." 

Then    said    the    Showman,   sadly  : 

"  He  who  grieves 

Over  the  scattering  of  the  sibyl's  leaves 
Unwisely  mourns.  Suffice  it,  that  we 

know 
What  needs  must  ripen  from  the  seed 

we  sow  ; 
That  present  time  is  but  the  mould 

wherein 

We  cast  the  shapes  of  holiness  and  sin. 
A  painful  watcher  of  the  passing  hour, 
Its  lust  of  gold,  its  strife  for  place  and 

£ower ; 
of  manhood,  honor,  reverence, 
truth, 

Wise  -  thoughted   age,    and    generous- 
hearted  youth  ; 

Nor  yetunmindfulof  each  bettersign, — 
The  low,  far  lights,  which  on  th'  hori 
zon  shine, 


Like  those  which  sometimes  tremble 

on  the  rim 

Of  clouded  skieswhendayisclosingdim, 
Flashing  athwart  the  purple  spears  of 

rain 
The  hope   of  sunshine  on    the    hills 

again  :  — 
I  need  no  prophet's  word,  nor  shapes 

that  pass 
Like   clouding   shadows  o'er  a  magic 

glass ; 

For  now,  as  ever,  passionless  and  cold, 
Doth  the  dread  angel  of  the  future  hold 
Evil  and  good  before  us,  with  no  voice 
Or  warning  look  to  guide  us  in  our 

choice  ; 
With      spectral      hands     outreaching 

through  the  gloom 
The  shadowy  contrasts  of  the  coming 

doom. 
Transferred  from  these,  it  now  remains 

to  give 

The  sun  and  shade  of  Fate's  alterna 
tive." 

Then,  with  a  burst  of  music,  touch 
ing  all 

The  keys  of  thrifty  life,  —  the  mill- 
stream's  fall, 
The  engine's  pant  along  its  quivering 

rails, 
The  anvil's  ring,  the  measured  beat  of 

flails, 
The    sweep  of  scythes,   the    reaper's 

whistled  tune, 
Answering  the  summons  of  the  bells  of 

noon, 
The  woodman's  hail  along  the  rivei 

shores, 
The  steamboat's  signal,  and  the  dip  of 

oars,  — 

Slowly  the  curtain  rose  from  off  a  land 
Fair  as  God's  garden.  Broad  on  eithe/ 

hand 
The  golden  wheat-fields  glimmered  i\i 

the  sun, 
And   the  tall   maize  its  yellow  tassels 

spun. 
Smooth  highways  set  with  hedge-rows 

living  green, 
With   steepled  towns  through   shaded 

vistas  seen, 
The  school-house  murmuring  with  its 

hive-like  swarm, 


THE  PANORAMA. 


217 


The  brook-bank  whitening  in  the  grist 
mill's  storm, 

The  painted  farm  -  house  shining 
through  the  leaves 

Of  fruited  orchards  bending  at  its  eaves, 

Where  live  again,  around  the  Western 
hearth, 

The  homely  old-time  virtues  of  the 
.  North  ; 

Where  the  blithe  housewife  rises  with 
the  day, 

And  well-paid  labor  counts  his  task  a 
play. 

And,  grateful  tokens  of  a  Bible  free,. 

And  the  free  Gospel  of  Humanity, 

Of  diverse  sects  and  differing"  names 
the  shrines, 

One  in  their  faith,  whate'er  their  out 
ward  signs, 

Like  varying  strophes  of  the  same 
sweet  hymn 

From  many  a  prairie's  swell  and  river's 
brim, 

A  thousand  church-spires  sanctify  the 
air 

Of  the  calm  Sabbath,  with  their  sign 
of  prayer. 

Like    sudden  nightfall    over  bloom 

and  green 
The  curtain  dropped  :   and,  momently, 

between 
The  clank  of  fetter  and  the  crack  of 

thong, 
Half  sob,   half  laughter,   music  swept 

along,  — 
A   strange   refrain,   whose  idle  words 

and  low, 
Like  drunken  mourners,  kept  the  time 

of  woe  ; 

As  if  the  revellers  at  a  masquerade 
Heard  in  the  distance  funeral  inarches 

played. 
Such  music,  dashing  all  his  smiles  with 

tears, 
The  thoughtful  voyager  on  Ponchar- 

train  hears, 
Where,  through  the  noonday  dusk  of 

wooded  shores 

The  negro  boatman,  singing  to  his  oars, 
With   a  wild  pathos  borrowed  of  his 

wrong 
Redeems  the  jargon  of  his  senseless 

song. 


"  Look,"  said  the  Showman,   sternly, 

as  he  rolled 
His  curtain  upward  ;    "  Fate's  reverse 

behold  !" 

A  village  straggling  in  loose  disarray 
Of  vulgar  newness,  premature  decay  ; 
A  tavern,  crazy  with  its  whiskey  brawls, 
With  "  Slaves  at  Auction  !  "  garnish 
ing  its  walls. 

Without,  surrounded  by  a  motleycrowd, 
The  shrewd-eyed  salesman,  garrulous 

and  loud, 

A  squire  or  colonel  in  his  pride  of  place, 
Known  at  free  fights,  the  caucus,  and 

the  race, 
Prompt  to  proclaim  his  honor  without 

blot, 
And  silence  doubters  with  a  ten-pace 

shot, 

Mingling  the  negro-driving  bully's  rant 
With  pious  phrase  and  democratic  cant, 
Yet  never  scrupling,  with  a  filthy  jest, 
To  sell   the  infant   from   its  mother's 

breast, 
Break  through  all  ties  of  wedlock,  home, 

and  kin, 

Yield  shrinking  girlhood  up  to  gray- 
beard  sin  ; 

Sell  all  the  virtues  with  his  human  stock, 
The  Christian  graces  on  his  auction- 
block, 
And  coolly  count  on  shrewdest  bargains 

driven 

In  hearts  regenerate,  and  in  souls  for 
given  ! 

Look  once  again  !    The  moving  can 
vas  shows 

A  slave  plantation's  slovenly  repose, 
Where,  in  rude   cabins  rotting   midst 

their  weeds, 
The  human  chattel  eats,  and  sleeps,  and 

breeds  ; 

And,  held  a  brute,  in  practice,  as  in  law, 
Becomes  in  fact  the  thing  he 's  taken  for. 
There,  earlysummoned  to  the  hemp  and 

corn,  "    .. 

The  nursing  mother  leaves   her  child 

new-born  ; 
There    haggard    sickness,    weak    and 

deathly  fair.t, 
Crawls  to  his  task,  and  fears  to  make 

complaint ; 


2l8 


THE  PANORAMA. 


And  sad-eyed  Rachels,  childless  in  de 
cay, 

Weep  for  their  lost  ones  sold  and  torn 
away  ! 

Of  ampler  size  the  master's  dwelling 
stands, 

In  shabby  keeping  with  his  half-tilled 
lands,  — 

Thegatesunhinged,  the  yard  with  weeds 
unclean, 

The  cracked  veranda  with  a  tipsy  lean. 

Without,  loose-scattered  like  a  wreck 
adrift, 

Signs  of  misrule  and  tokens  of  unthrift; 

Within,  profusion  to  discomfort  joined, 

The  listless  body  and  the  vacant  mind  ; 

The  fear,  the  hate,  the  theft  and  false 
hood,  born 

In  menial  hearts  of  toil,  and  stripes,  and 
scorn  ! 

There,  all  the  vices,  which,  like  birds 
obscene, 

Batten  on  slavery  loathsome  and  un 
clean, 

From  the  foul  kitchen  to  the  parlor  rise, 

Pollute  the  nursery  where  the  child-heir 
lies, 

Taint  infant  lips  beyond  all  after  cure, 

With  the  fell  poison  of  a  breast  impure  ; 

Touch  boyhood's  passions  with  the 
breath  of  flame, 

From  girlhood's  instincts  steal  the  blush 
of  shame. 

So  swells,  from  low  to  high,  from  weak 
to  strong, 

The  tragic  chorus  of  the  baleful  wrong  ; 

Guilty  or  guiltless,  all  within  its  range 

Feel  the  blind  justice  of  its  sure  revenge. 

Still  scenes  like  these  themovingchart 

reveals. 

Up  the  long  western  steppes  the  blight 
ing  steals ; 

Down  the  Pacific  slope  the  evil  Fate 
Glideslikea  shadow  tothe  Golden  Gate: 
From   sea  to  sea  the  drear  eclipse   is 

thrown, 
From  sea  to  sea  the  Mauvaises  Terres 

have  grown, 

A  belt  of  curses  on  the  New  World's 
zone  ! 

The  curtain  fell.     All  drew  a  freer 
breath, 


As  men  are  wont  to  do  when  mournful 

death 

Is  covered  from  their  sight.    The  Show 
man  stood 

With  drooping  brow  in  sorrow's  attitude 
One  moment,  then  with  sudden  gesture 

shook 
His  loose  hair  back,  and  with  the  air 

and  look 

Ofone  who  felt,  beyond  the  narrow  stage 
And  listening  group,  the  presence  of  the 

age, 
And  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  things 

to  be, 
Poured  out  his  soul  in  earnest  words 

and  free. 

"  O  friends  !  "  he  said,  "  in  this  poor 

trick  of  paint 
You  see  the  semblance,  incomplete  and 

faint, 

Of  the  two-fronted  Future,  which,  to 
day, 
Stands  dim  and  silent,  waiting  in  your 

way. 
To-day,  your  servant,  subject  to  your 

will ; 

To-morrow,  master,  or  for  good  or  ill. 
If  the  dark  face  of  Slavery  on  you  turns, 
Jfthemadcurse  its  paper  barrier  spurns, 
If  the  world  granary  of  the  West  is  made 
The  last  foul  market  of  the  slaver's  trade, 
Why  rail  at  fate  ?  The  mischief  is  your 

own. 

Why  hate  your  neighbor  ?    Blame  your 
selves  alone  ! 

"  Men  of  the  North !    The  South  you 

charge  with  wrong 
Is  weak  and  poor,  while  you  are  rich 

and  strong. 

If  questions,  —  idle  and  absurd  as  those 
The  old-time  monks  and  Paduan  doc 
tors  chose,  — 
Mere  ghosts  of  questions,  tariffs,  and 

dead  banks, 
And   scarecrow   pontiffs,   never  broke 

your  ranks, 
Your  thews  united  could,  at  once,  roll 

back 

The  jostled  nation  to  its  primal  track. 
Nay,  were  you  simply  steadfast,  manly, 

just, 
True  to  the  faith  your  fathers  left  in  trust, 


THE  PANORAMA. 


219 


If  stainless  honor  outweighed  in  your 
scale 

A  codfish  quintal  or  a  factory  bale, 

Full  many  a  noble  heart,  (and  such  re 
main 

In  all  the  South,  like  Lot  in  Siddim's 
plain, 

Who  watch  and  wait,  and  from  the 
wrong's  control 

Keep  white  and  pure  their  chastity  of 
soul,) 

Now  sick  to  loathing  of  your  weak  com 
plaints, 

Your  tricks  as  sinners,  and  your  prayers 
as  saints, 

Would  half-way  meet  the  frankness  of 
your  tone, 

And  feel  their  pulses  beating  with  your 
own. 

"The  North!  the  South!  no  geo 
graphic  line 

Canfix  the  boundary  or  the  point  define, 

Since  each  with  each  so  closely  inter- 
blends, 

Where  Slavery  rises,  and  where  Free 
dom  ends. 

Beneath  your  rocks  the  roots,  far-reach 
ing,  hide 

Of  the  fell  Upas  on  the  Southern  side  ; 

The  tree  whose  branches  in  your  north 
winds  wave 

Dropped  its  young  blossoms  on  Mount 
Vernon's  grave  ; 

The  nursling  growth  of  Monticello's 
crest 

Is  now  the  glory  of  the  free  North 
west  ; 

To  the  wise  maxims  of  her  olden  school 

Virginia  listened  from  thylips,  Rantoul; 

Seward's  words  of  power,  and  Sutnner's 
fresh  renown, 

Flow  from  the  pen  that  Jefferson  laid 
down  ! 

And  when,  at  length,  her  years  of  mad 
ness  o'er, 

Like  the  crowned  grazer  on  Euphrates' 
shore, 

From  her  long  lapse  to  savagery,  her 
mouth 

Bitter  with  baneful  herbage,  turns  the 
South, 

Resumes  her  old  attire,  and  seeks  to 
smooth 


Her  unkempt  tresses  at  the  glass  of 

truth, 

Herearly  faith  shall  find  a  tongue  again, 
New  Wythes  and  Pinckneys  swell  that 

old  refrain, 
Her  sons  with  yours  renew  the  ancient 

pact, 

The  myth  of  Union  prove  at  last  a  fact ! 
Then,   if  one  murmur  mars  the  wide 

content, 
Some  Northern  lip  will  drawl  the  last 

dissent, 

Some  Union-saving  patriot  of  your  own 
Lament  to  find  his  occupation  gone. 

"Grant  that  the  North's  insulted, 
scorned,  betrayed, 

O'erreached  in  bargains  with  her  neigh 
bor  made, 

When  selfish  thrift  and  party  held  the 
scales 

For  peddling  dicker,  not  for  honest 
sales,  — 

Whom  shall  we  strike?  Who  most 
deserves  our  blame  ? 

The  braggart  Southron,  open  in  his 
aim, 

And  bold  as  wicked,  crashing  straight 
through  all 

That  bars  his  purpose,  like  a  cannon- 
ball? 

Or  the  mean  traitor,  breathing  northern 
air, 

With  nasal  speech  and  puritanic  hair, 

Whose  cant  the  loss  of  principle  sur 
vives, 

As  the  mud-turtle  e'en  its  head  out 
lives  ; 

Who,  caught,  chin-buried  in  some  foul 
offence, 

Puts  on  a  look  of  injured  innocence, 

And  consecrates  his  baseness  to  the 
cause 

Of  constitution,  union,  and  the  laws? 

"  Praise  to  the  place-man  who  can 

hold  aloof 

His  still  unpurchased  manhood,  office- 
proof; 

Who  on  his  round  of  duty  walks  erect, 
And  leaves  it  only  rich  in  self-respect,  — 
As  MORE  maintained  his  virtue's  lofty 
port 


THE   PANORAMA. 


In  the  Eighth  Henry's  base  and  bloody 

court.  „ 

But,  if  exceptions  here  and  there  are 

found, 
Who  tread  thus  safely  on   enchanted 

ground, 
The   normal   type,  the   fitting  symbol 

still 


Of  those  who  fatten  at  the  public  mill. 

'de  his 
door, 


Is  the  chained  dog  beside  his  master's 

door, 
Or  CIRCE'S  victim,  feeding  on  all  four  ! 

"Give  me  the  heroes  who,  at  tuck  of 
drum, 

Salute  thy  staff,  immortal  Quattlebum  ! 

Or  they  who,  doubly  armed  with  vote 
and  gun, 

Following  thy  lead,  illustrious  Atchison, 

Their  drunken  franchise  shift  from  scene 
to  scene. 

As  tile-beard  Jourdan  did  his  guillo 
tine  !  — 

Rather  than  him  who,  born  beneath  our 
skies, 

To  Slavery's  hand  its  supplest  tool  sup 
plies,  — 

The  party  felon  whose  unblushing  face 

Looks  from  the  pillory  of  his  bribe  of 
place, 

And  coolly  makes  a  merit  of  disgrace,  — 

Points  to  the  footmarks  of  indignant 
scorn, 

Shows  the  deep  scars  of  satire's  tossing 
horn ; 

And  passes  to  his  credit  side  the  sum 

Of  all  that  makes  a  scoundrel's  martyr 
dom  ! 

"  Bane  of  the  North,  its  canker  and 

its  moth  !  — 
These  modern  Esaus,  bartering  rights 

for  broth  ! 
Taxing  our  justice,  with  their  double 

claim, 
As  fools  for  pity,  and   as  knaves  for 

blame ; 
Who,  urged  by  party,  sect,  or  trade, 

within 
The  fell  embrace  of  Slavery's   sphere 

of  sin, 

Part  at  the  outsetwith  their  moral  sense, 
The   watchful   angel    set    for    Truth's 

defence ; 


Confound  all  contrasts,  good  and  ill; 
reverse 

The  poles  of  life,  its  blessing  and  its 
curse ; 

And  lose  thenceforth  from  their  per 
verted  sight 

The  eternal  difference  'twixt  the  wrong 
and  right ; 

To  them  the  Law  is  but  the  iron  span 

That  girds  the  ankles  of  imbruted  man  ; 

To  them  the  Gospel  has  no  higher  aim 

Than  simple  sanction  of  the  master's 
claim, 

Dragged  in  the  slime  of  Slavery's  loath 
some  trail, 

Like  Chalier's  Bible  at  his  ass's  tail ! 

"  Such  are  the  men  who,  with  in 
stinctive  dread, 

Whenever  Freedom  lifts  her  drooping 
head, 

Make  prophet-tripods  of  their  office- 
stools, 

And  scare  the  nurseries  and  the  village 
schools 

With  dire  presage  of  ruin  grim  and 
great, 

A  broken  Union  and  a  foundered  State  ! 

Such  are  the  patriots,  self-bound  to  the 
stake 

Of  office,  martyrs  for  their  country's 
sake : 

Who  fill  themselves  the  hungry  jaws  of 
Fate, 

And  by  their  loss  of  manhood  save  the 
State. 

In  the  wide  gulf  themselves  like  Cur- 
tius  throw, 

And  test  the  virtues  of  cohesive  dough  ; 

As  tropic  monkeys,  linking  heads  and 
tails, 

Bridge  o'er  some  torrent  of  Ecuador's 
vales  1 

"  Such  are  the  men  who  in  your 
churches  rave 

To  swearing-point,  at  mention  of  the 
slave, 

When  some  poor  parson,  haply  un 
awares, 

Stammers  of  freedom  in  his  timid 
prayers  ; 

Who,  if  some  foot-sore  negro  through 
the  town 


THE  PANORAMA. 


Steals  northward,   volunteer  to    hunt 

him  down. 

Or,  if  some  neighbor,  flying  from  dis 
ease, 
Courts  the  mild  balsam  of  the  Southern 

breeze, 
With  hue  and  cry  pursue  him  on   his 

track, 
And  write  Free-soiler  QT\  the  poor  man's 

back. 
Such  are  the  men  who  leave  the  ped- 

ler's  cart, 
While  faring  South,  to  learn  the  driver's 

art, 
Or,   in  white   neckcloth,   soothe  with 

pious  aim 
The  graceful  sorrows  of  some  languid 

dame, 

Who,  from  the  wreck  of  her  bereave 
ment,  saves 
The  double  charm  of  widowhood  and 

slaves  !  — 
Pliant  and  apt,  they  lose  no  chance  to 

show 

To  what  base  depths  apostasy  can  go ; 
Outdo  the  natives  in  their  readiness 
To  roast  a  negro,  or  to  mob  a  press  ; 
Poise  a  tarred  schoolmate  on  the  lynch- 

er's  rail, 
Or  make  a  bonfire  of  their  birthplace 

mail ! 

"  So  some  poor  wretch,  whose  lips  no 
longer  bear 

The  sacred  burden  of  his  mother's 
prayer, 

By  fear  impelled,  or  lust  of  gold  en 
ticed, 

Turns  to  the  Crescent  from  the  Cross 
of  Christ, 

And,  over-acting  in  superfluous  zeal, 

Crawls  prostrate  where  the  faithful  only 
kneel, 

Out-howls  the  Dervish,  hugs  his  rags 
to  court 

The  squalid  Santon's  sanctity  of  dirt ; 

And,  when  beneath  the  city  gateway's 
span 

Files  slow  and  long  the  Meccan  cara 
van, 

And  through  its  midst,  pursued  by 
Islam's  prayers, 

Theprophet's  Word  some  favored  camel 
bears, 


The  marked  apostate  has  his  place 
assigned 

The  Koran-bearer's  sacred  rump  be 
hind, 

With  brush  and  pitcher  following,  grave 
and  mute, 

In  meek  attendance  on  the  holy  brute  ! 

"  Men  of  the  North  !  beneath  your 

very  eyes, 
By  hearth  and  home,  your  real  danger 

lies. 
Still  day  by  day  some  hold  of  freedom 

falls, 
Through  home-bred  traitors  fed  within 

its  walls.  — 
Men  whom  yourselves  with  vote   and 

purse  sustain, 

At  posts  of  honor,  influence,  and  gain ; 
The  right  of  Slavery  to  your  sons  to 

teach, 

And  "South-side  "  Gospels  in  your  pul 
pits  preach, 
Transfix  the  Law  to  ancient   freedom 

dear 
On  the  sharp  point  of  her  subverted 

spear, 

And  imitate  upon  her  cushion  plump 
The  mad  Missourian  lynching  from  his 

stump ; 
Or,  in  your  name,  upon  the  Senate's 

floor 
Yield  up  to   Slavery  all  it  asks,  and 

more  ; 
And,  ere  your  dull  eyes  open  to  the 

cheat, 
Sell   your  old  homestead   underneath 

your  feet ! 

While  such  as  these  your  loftiest  out 
looks  hold, 
While  truth  and  conscience  with  your 

wares  are  sold, 
While  grave-browed   merchants   band 

themselves  to  aid 
An  annual  man-hunt  for  their  Southern 

trade, 
What  moral  power  within  your  grasp 

remains 
To   stay   the   mischief  on    Nebraska's 

plains?  — 
High  as  the  tides  of  generous  impulse 

flow, 

As  far  rolls  back  the  selfish  under 
tow  ; 


THE  PANORAMA. 


And  all  your  brave  resolves,  though 

aimed  as  true 

Asthehorse-pistol  Balmawhapple  drew, 
To  Slavery's  bastions  lend  as  slight  a 

shock 
As  the  poor  trooper's  shot  to  Stirling 

rock ! 

"Yet,  while  the  need  of  Freedom's 
cause  demands 

The  earnest  efforts  of  your  hearts  and 
hands, 

Urged  by  all  motives  that  can  prompt 
the  heart 

To  prayer  and  toil  and  manhood's  man 
liest  part ; 

Though  to  the  soul's  deep  tocsin  Nature 
joins 

The  warning  whisper  of  her  Orphic 
pines, 

The  north-wind's  anger,  and  the  south- 
wind's  sigh, 

The  midnight  sword-dance  of  the  north 
ern  sky, 

And,  to  the  ear  that  bends  above  the 
sod 

Of  the  green  grave-mounds  in  the 
Fields  of  God, 

In  low,  deep  murmurs  of  rebuke  or 
cheer, 

The  land's  dead  fathers  speak  their 
hope  or  fear, 

Yet  let  not  Passion  wrest  from  Reason's 
hand 

The  guiding  rein  and  symbol  of  com 
mand. 

Blame  not  the  caution  proffering  to  your 
zeal 

A  well-meant  drag  upon  its  hurrying 
wheel ; 

Nor  chide  the  man  whose  honest  doubt 
extends 

To  the  means  only,  not  the  righteous 
ends ; 

Nor  fail  to  weigh  the  scruples  and  the 
fears 

Of  milder  natures  and  serener  years. 

In  the  long  strife  with  evil  which  began 

With  the  first  lapse  of  new-created  man, 

Wisely  and  well  has  Providence  assigned 

To  each  his  part,  —  some  forward,  some 
behind ; 

And  they,  too,  serve  who  temper  and 
restrain 


The  o'erwarm  heart  that  sets  on  fire  the 

brain. 

True  to  yourselves,  feed  Freedom's  al 
tar-flame 
With  what  you  have ;  let  others  do  the 

same. 
Spare    timid    doubters  ;  set  like   flint 

your  face 
Against  the  self-sold  knaves  of  gain  and 

place  : 

Pity  the  weak  ;  but  with  unsparing  hand 
Cast   out   the   traitors  who   infest  the 

land,  — 

From  bar,  press,  pulpit,  cast  them  every 
where, 

By  dint  of  fasting,  if  you  fail  by  prayer. 
And  in  their  place  bring  men  of  antique 

mould, 
Like  the  grave  fathers  of  your  Age  of 

Gold,  — 
Statesmen  like  those  who  sought  the 

primal  fount 
Of  righteous  law,  the   Sermon  on  the 

Mount ; 
Lawyers  who  prize,  like  Quincy,  (to  our 

day 
Still  spared,  Heaven  bless  him  !)  honor 

more  than  pay, 
And  Christian  jurists,  starry-pure,  like 

Jay; 

Preachers  like  Woolman,  or  like  them 
who  bore 

Thefaith  of  Wesley  toour  Western  shore, 

And  held  no  convert  genuine  till  he 
broke 

Alike  his  servants' andthe  Devil's  yoke; 

And  priests  like  him  who  Newport's 
market  trod, 

And  o'er  its  slave-ships  shook  the  bolts 
of  God! 

So  shall  your  power,  with  a  wise  pru 
dence  used, 

Strong  but  forbearing,  firm  but  not 
abused, 

In  kindly  keeping  with  the  good  of  all, 

The  nobler  maxims  of  the  past  recall, 

Her  natural  home-born  right  to  Free 
dom  give, 

And  leave  her  foe  his  robber-right,  —  to 
live. 

Live,  as  the  snake  does  in  his  noisome 
fen! 

Live,  as  the  wolf  does  in  his  bone-strewn 
den  ! 


THE  PANORAMA. 


223 


Live,  clothed  with  cursing  like  a  robe  of 

flame, 
The    focal    point    of    million-fingered 

shame  ! 
Live,  till  the  Southron,  who,  with  all  his 

faults, 

Has  manly  instincts,  in  his  pride  revolts, 
Dashes  from  off  him,  midst  the  glad 

world's  cheers, 
The  hideous  nightmare  of  his  dream  of 

years, 
And  lifts,  self-prompted,  with  his  own 

right  hand, 
The  vile  encumbrance  from  his  glorious 

land! 

"  So,  wheresoe'er  our  destiny  sends 

forth 
Its  widening  circles  to  the   South  or 

North, 
Where'er  our  banner  flaunts  beneath 

the  stars 
Its  mimic  splendors  and   its  cloudlike 

bars, 
There  shall  Free  Labor's  hardy  children 

stand 

The  equal  sovereigns  of  a  slaveless  land. 
And  when  at  last  the  hunted  bison  tires, 
And  dies  o'ertaken  by  the  squatter's 

fires ; 
And  westward,  wave  on  wave,  the  living 

flood 
Breaks  on  the  snow-line   of  majestic 

Hood; 
And  lonely  Shasta  listening  hears  the 

tread 
Of  Europe's  fair-haired  children,  Hes- 

per-led ; 
And,    gazing    downward    through   his 

hoar-locks,  sees 

The  tawny  Asian  climb  his  giant  knees, 
The  Eastern  sea  shall  hush  his  waves  to 

hear 
Pacific's  surf-beat  answer    Freedom's 

cheer, 

And  one  long  rolling  fire  of  triumph  run 
Between  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset 

gun  !  " 


My  task  is  done.    The  Showman  and 
his  show, 


Themselves  but  shadows,  into  shadows 

go; 

And,  if  no  song  of  idlesse  I  have  sung, 
Nor  tints  of  beauty  on  the  canvas 

flung,  — 
If  the  harsh  numbers  grate  on  tender 

ears, 

And  the  rough  picture  overwrought  ap 
pears,  — 
With  deeper  coloring,  with  a  sterner 

blast, 

Before  mysoula  voice  and  vision  passed, 
Such  as  might  Milton's  jarring  trump 

require, 
Or  glooms  of  Dante  fringed  with  lurid 

fire. 
O,  not  of  choice,  for  themes  of  public 

wrong 
I  leave  the  green  and  pleasant  paths  of 

•song,  — 
The   mild,  sweet  words  which  soften 

and  adorn, 
For  griding  taunt  and  bitter  laugh  of 

scorn. 
More  dear  to  me  some  song  of  private 

worth, 

Some  homely  idyl  of  my  native  North, 
Somesummer  pastoral  of  herinland  vales 
Or,  grim   and  weird,   her  winter  fire 
side  tales 
Haunted    by    ghosts    of    unreturning 

sails,  — 
Lost  barks  at  parting  hung  from  stem 

to  helm 
With  prayers  of  love  like  dreams  on 

Virgil's  elm. 
Nor  private  grief  nor  malice  holds  my 

pen  ; 

I  owe  but  kindness  to  my  fellow-men  j 
And,  South  or  North,  wherever  hearts 

of  prayer 
Their  woes  and  weakness  to  our  Father 

bear, 
Wherever  fruits  of  Christian  love  are 

found 

In  holy  lives,  to  me  is  holy  ground. 
But  the  time  passes.     It  were  vain  to 

crave 

A  late  indulgence.  What  I  had  I  gave. 
Forget  the  poet,  but  his  warning  heed, 
And  shame  his  poor  word  with  your 

nobler  deed. 


MISCELLANEOUS. ' 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE. 


WHITE  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt 

the  deep, 

Light  mists,  whose  soft  embraces  keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep  ! 

O  isles  of  calm  !  — O  dark,  still  wood  ! 
And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude  ! 

0  shapes   and   hues,   dim  beckoning, 

through 

Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue, 

To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land, 

And  softer  lights  and  airs  nore  bland, 

And  skies,  — the  hollow  of  God's  hand  ! 

Transfused  through  you,  O  mountain 

friends  ! 

With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends, 
And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 

1  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 

I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And  I  am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 

Life's  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 

I  lapse  into  the  glad  release 

Of  nature's  own  exceeding  peace. 

O,  welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind  ! 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree's  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  growth  behind, 

So  fall  the  weary  years  away ; 
A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 

This  western  wind  hath  Lethean  powers, 
Yon  noonday  cloud  nepenthe  showers, 
The  lake  is  white  with  lotus-flowers  ! 

Even  Duty's  voice  is  faint  and  low, 
And   slumberous   Conscience,   waking 

slow, 
Forgets  her  blotted  scroll  to  show. 


The  Shadow  which  pursues  us  all, 
Whose  ever-nearing  steps  appall, 
Whose  voice  we  hear  behind  us  call,  — 

That   Shadow  blends  with    mountain 

gray, 

It  speaks  butwhatthe  lightwaves  say,  — 
Death  walks  apart  from  Fear  to-day  ! 

Rocked  on  her  breast,  these  pines  and  I 
Alike  on  Nature's  love  rely  ; 
And  equal  seems  to  live  or  die. 

Assured  that  He  whose  presence  fills 
With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 
No  evil  to  his  creatures  wills, 

The  simple  faith  remains,  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be, 
The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree. 

What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow, 
What  light  and  life  the  other  know, 
Unanxious,  leaving  Him  to  show. 

II.    EVENING. 

Yon  mountain's  side  is  black  with  night, 
While,  broad-orbed,  o'er  its  gleaming 
crown 

The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight, 
On  the  hushed  inland  sea  looks  down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles, 
Each  silver-hemmed  !     How  sharply 
show 

The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles, 
And  tree-tops  in  the  wave  below  ! 

How  far  and   strange   the   mountains 

seem, 
Dim-looming  through  the  pale,  still 

light ! 

The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 
They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night. 

Beneath,  lake,  wood,  and  peopled  vale, 
Hushed  by  that  presence  grand  and 
grave, 

Are  silent,  save  the  cricket's  wail, 
And  low  response  of  leaf  and  wave. 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE    THE B A  ID. 


Fair  scenes !  whereto  the  Day  and  Night 
Make  rival  love,  I  leave  ye  soon, 

What  time  before  the  eastern  light 
The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  moon 

Shall  hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines, 
And  the  young  archer,  Morn,  shall 
break 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines, 
And, golden-sandalled,  walk  the  lake! 

Farewell  !  around  this  smiling  bay 
Gay-hearted  Health,  and  Life  in 

bloom, 
With  lighter   steps    than    mine,   may 

stray 
In  radiant  summers  yet  to  come. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave 
These  waters  and  these  hills  than  I : 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 
Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky  ; 

How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 
On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay ; 

Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled 
And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day ; 

Nor  laughing  girl,  nor  bearding  boy. 
Nor  full-pulsed  manhood,  lingering 
here, 

Shall  add,  to  life's  abounding  joy, 
The  charmed  repose  to  suffering  dear. 

Still  waits  kind  Nature  to  impart 
Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 

An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 
Through  the  sharp  discipline  of  pain. 

Forever  from  the  Hand  that  takes 
One  blessing  from  us  others  fall ; 

And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 
His  perfect  recompense  to  all ! 

O,  watched  by  Silence  and  the  Night, 
And  folded  in  the  strong  embrace 

Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light 
Of  the  sweet  heavens  upon  thy  face, 

Lake  of  the  Northland!  keep  thy  dower 
Of  beauty  still,  and  while  above 

Thy  solemn  mountains  speak  of  power, 
Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God's  love. 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  THE- 
BAID. 

O  STRONG,  upwelling  prayers  of  faith* 
From  inmost  founts  of  life  ye  start,  — 

The  spirit's  pulse,  the  vital  breath 
Of  soul  and  heart! 

From  pastoral  toil,  from  traffic's  din, 
Alone,  in  crowds,  at  home,  abroad, 

Unheard  of  man,  ye  enter  in 
The  ear  of  God. 

Ye  brook  no  forced  and  measured  tasks, 
Nor  weary  rote,  nor  formal  chains; 

The  simple  heart,  that  freely  asks 
In  love,  obtains. 

For  man  the  living  temple  is : 
The  mercy-seat  and  cherubim, 

And  all  the  holy  mysteries, 
He  bears  with  him. 

And  most  avails  the  prayer  of  love, 
Which,   wordless,    shapes    itself  in 
deeds, 

And  wearies  Heaven  for  naught  above 
Our  common  needs. 

Which  brings  to  God's  all-perfect  will 
That  trust  of  his  undoubting  child 

Whereby  all  seeming  good  and  ill 
Are  reconciled. 

And,  seeking  not  for  special  signs 

Of  favor,  is  content  to  fall 
Within  the  providence  which  shines 

And  rains  on  all. 

Alone,  the  Thebaid  hermit  leaned 
At  noontime  o'er  the  sacred  word. 

Was  it  an  angel  or  a  fiend 
Whose  voice  he  heard  ? 

It  broke  the  desert's  hush  of  awe, 
A  human  utterance,  sweet  and  mild  ; 

And,  looking  up,  the  hermit  saw 
A  little  child. 

A  child,  with  wonder-widened  eyes, 
O'erawed  and  troubled  by  the  sight 

Of  hot,  red  sands,  and  brazen  skies, 
And  anchorite. 


226 


MISCELLA  NEOUS. 


"  What  dost  thou  here,  poor  man?  No 

shade 
Of  cool,  green  doums,  nor  grass,  nor 

well, 
Nor  corn,    nor   vines."      The   hermit 

said  : 
"  With  God  I  dwell. 

"  Alone  with  Him  in  this  great  calm, 
I  live  not  by  the  outward  sense  ; 

My  Nile  his  love,  my  sheltering  palm 
His  providence." 

The  child  gazed  round  him.  "  Does 
God  live 

Here  only?  —  where  the  desert's  rim 
Is  green  with  corn,  at  morn  and  eve, 

W 'e  pray  to  Him. 

"  My  brother  tills  beside  the  Nile 
His  little  field  :  beneath  the  leaves 

My  sisters  sit  and  spin  the  while, 
My  mother  weaves. 

"  And  when  the  millet's  ripe  heads  fall, 
And  all  the  bean-field  hangs  in  pod, 

My  mother  smiles,  and  says  that  all 
Are  gifts  from  God. 

"  And  when  to  share  our  evening  meal, 
She  calls  the  stranger  at  the  door, 

She  says  God  fills  the  hands  that  deal 
Food  to  the  poor." 

Adown  the  hermit's  wasted  cheeks 
Glistened  the  flow  of  human  tears  ; 

"  Dear  Lord  !  "  he  said,    "  thy  angel 

speaks, 
Thy  servant  hears." 

Within  his  arms  the  child  he  took, 
And  thought  of  home  and  life  with 
men ; 

And  all  his  pilgrim  feet  forsook 
Returned  again. 

The.  palmy  shadows  cool  and  long, 
The  eyes  that  smiled  through  lavish 
locks, 

Home's  cradle-hymn  and  harvest-song, 
And  bleat  of  flocks. 

"  O  child  !  "  he  said,  "  thou  teachest  me 
There  is  no  place  where  God  is  not; 


That  love  will  make,  where'er  it  be, 
A  holy  spot." 

He  rose  from  off  the  desert  sand, 
And,  leaning  on  his  staff  of  thorn, 

Went,  with  the  young  child,  hand-in- 
hand, 
Like  night  with  morn. 

They  crossed  the  desert's  burning  line, 
And   heard  the  palm-tree's  rustling 
fan, 

The  Nile-bird's  cry,  the  low  of  kine, 
And  voice  of  man. 

Unquestioning,  his  childish  guide 
He  followed  as  the  small  hand  led 

To  where  a  woman,  gentle-eyed, 
Her  distaff  fed. 

She  rose,  she  clasped  her  truant  boy, 
She  thanked  the  stranger  with  her 
eyes. 

The  hermit  gazed  in  doubt  and  joy 
And  dumb  surprise. 

And  lo  !  —  with  sudden  warmth  and 
light 

A  tender  memory  thrilled  his  frame  ; 
New-born,  the  world-lost  anchorite 

A  man  became. 

"  O  sister  of  El  Zara's  race, 

Behold  me  !  —  had  we  not  one  moth 
er?'; 
She  gazed  into  the  stranger's  face ;  — 

"Thou  art  my  brother?  " 

"  O  kin  of  blood  !  — Thy  life  of  use 
And  patient  trust  is  more  than  mine ; 

And  wiser  than  the  gray  recluse 
This  child  of  thine. 

"  For,  taught  of  him  whom  God  hath 
sent, 

That  toil  is  praise,  and  love  is  prayer, 
I  come,  life's  cares  and  pains  content 

With  thee  to  share." 

Even  as  his  foot  the  threshold  crossed, 
The  hermit's  better  life  began ; 

Its  holiest  saint  the  Thebaid  lost» 
And  found  a  man  ! 


BURNS. 


227 


BURNS. 

ON  RECEIVING  A   SPRIG    OF    HEATHER 
IN    BLOSSOM. 

No  more  these  simple  flowers  belong 
To  Scottish  maid  and  lover  ; 

Sown  in  the  common  soil  of  song, 
They  bloom  the  wide  world  over. 

In  smiles  and  tears,  in  sun  and  show 
ers, 

The  minstrel  and  the  heather, 
The  deathless  singer  and  the  flowers 

He  sang  of  live  together. 

Wild  heather-bells  and  Robert  Burns  1 
The  moorland  flower  and  peasant ! 

^low,  at  their  mention,  memory  turns 
Her  pages  old  and  pleasant ! 

The  gray  sky  wears  again  its  gold 

And  purple  of  adorning, 
And  manhood's  noonday  shadows  hold 

The  dews  of  boyhood's  morning. 

The  dews  that  washed  the  dust  and  soil 
From  off  the  wings  of  pleasure, 

The  sky,  that  flecked  the  ground  of  toil 
With  golden  threads  of  leisure. 

I  call  to  mind  the  summer  day, 

The  early  harvest  mowing, 
The  sky  with  sun  and  clouds  at  play, 

And  flowers  with  breezes  blowing. 

I  hear  the  blackbird  in  the  corn, 

The  locust  in  the  haying  ; 
And,  like  the  fabled  hunter's  horn, 

Old  tunes  my  heart  is  playing. 

How  oft  that  day,  with  fond  delay, 
I  sought  the  maple's  shadow, 

And  sang  with  Burns  the  hours  away, 
Forgetful  of  the  meadow  ! 

Bees  hummed,   birds  twittered,    over 
head 

I  heard  the  squirrels  leaping, 
The  good  dog  listened  while  I  read, 

And  wagged  his  tail  in  keeping. 

I  watched  him  while  in  sportive  mood 
I  read  "  The  Twa  Dogs'  "  story, 


And  half  believed  he  understood 
The  poet's  allegory. 

Sweet  day,  sweet  songs  !  —  The  golden 

hours 

Grew  brighter  for  that  singing, 
From  brook  and  bird    and    meadow 

flowers 
A  dearer  welcome  bringing. 

New    light    on    home-seen     Nature 
beamed, 

New  glory  over  Woman  ; 
And  daily  life  and  duty  seemed 

No  longer  poor  and  common. 

I  woke  to  find  the  simple  truth 

Of  fact  and  feeling  better 
Than  all  the  dreams  that  held  my  youth 

A  still  repining  debtor  : 

That  Nature  gives  her  handmaid,  Art, 
The  themes  of  sweet  discoursing  ; 

The  tender  idyls  of  the  heart 
In  every  tongue  rehearsing. 

Why  dream  of  lands  of  gold  and  pearl, 

Of  loving  knight  and  lady, 
When  fanner  boy  and  barefoot  girl 

Were  wandering  there  already  ? 

I  saw  through  all  familiar  things 

The  romance  underlying  ; 
The  joys  and  griefs  that  plume  the  wings 

Of  Fancy  skyward  flying. 

I  saw  the  same  blithe  day  return, 
The  same  sweet  fall  of  even, 

That  rose  on  wooded  Craigie-burn, 
And  sank  on  crystal  Devon. 

I  matched  with  Scotland's  heathery  hills 
The  sweet-brier  and  the  clover  ; 

With  Ayr  and  Doon,  my  native  rills, 
Their  wood-hymns  chanting  over. 

O'er  rank  and  pomp,  as  he  had  seen, 

I  saw  the  Man  uprising; 
No  longer  common  or  unclean, 

The  child  of  God's  baptizing  ! 

With  clearer  eyes  I  saw  the  worth 

Of  life  among  the  lowly  ; 
The  Bible  at  his  Cotter's  hearth 

Had  made  my  own  more  holy. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


And  if  at  times  an  evil  strain, 

To  lawless  love  appealing, 
Broke  in  upon  the  sweet  refrain 

Of  pure  and  healthful  feeling, 

It  died  upon  the  eye  and  ear, 
No  inward  answer  gaining  ; 

No  heart  had  I  to  see  or  hear 
The  discord  and  the  staining. 

Let  those  who  never  erred  forget 
His  worth,  in  vain  bewailings; 

Sweet  Soul  of  Song  !  —  I  own  ray  debt 
Uncancelled  by  his  failings  ! 

Lament  who  will  the  ribald  line 
Which  tells  his  lapse  from  duty, 

How  kissed  the  maddening  lips  of  wine 
Or  wanton  ones  of  beauty ; 

But  think,  while  falls  that  shade  be 
tween 

The  erring  one  and  Heaven, 
That  he  who  loved  like  Magdalen, 

Like  her  may  be  forgiven. 

Not  his  the  song  whose  thunderous 
chime 

Eternal  echoes  render,  — 
The  mournful  Tuscan's  haunted  rhyme, 

And  Milton's  starry  splendor  ! 

But  who  his  human  heart  has  laid 
To  Nature's  bosom  nearer? 

Who  sweetened  toil  like  him,  or  paid 
To  love  a  tribute  dearer? 

Through  all  his  tuneful  art,  how  strong 
The  human  feeling  gushes  ! 

The  very  moonlight  of  his  song 
Is  warm  with  smiles  and  blushes  ! 

Give  lettered  pomp  to  teeth  of  Time, 
So  "  Bonnie  Doon  "  but  tarry  ; 

Blot  out  the  Epic's  stately  rhyme, 
But  spare  his  Highland  Mary  ! 


WILLIAM   FORSTER.61 

THE  years  are  many  since  his  hand 

Was  laid  upon  my  head, 
Too  weak  and  young  to  understand 

The  serious  words  he  said. 


Yet  often  now  the  good  man's  look 

Before  me  seems  to  swim, 
As  if  some  inward  feeling  took 

The  outward  guise  of  him. 

As  if,  in  passion's  heated  war, 
Or  near  temptation's  charm, 

Through  him  the  low-voiced  monitor 
Forewarned  me  of  the  harm. 

Stranger  and  pilgrim  !  —  from  that  day 

Of  meeting,  first  and  last, 
Wherever  Duty's  pathway  lay, 

His  reverent  steps  have  passed. 

The  poor  to  feed,  the  lost  to  seek, 

To  proffer  life  to  death, 
Hope  to  the  erring,  —  to  the  weak 

The  strength  of  his  own  faith. 

To  plead  the  captive's  right ;  remove 
The  sting  of  hate  from  Law  ; 

And  soften  in  the  fire  of  love 
The  hardened  steel  of  War. 

He  walked  the  dark  world,  in  the  mild. 

Still  guidance  of  the  Light ; 
In  tearful  tenderness  a  child, 

A  strong  man  in  the  right. 

From  what  great  perils,  on  his  v.'ay, 
He  found,  in  prayer,  release  ; 

Through  what  abysmal  shadows  lay 
His  pathway  unto  peace, 

God  knoweth  :  we  could  only  see 
The  tranquil  strength  he  gained  ; 

The  bondage  lost  in  liberty, 
The  fear  in  love  unfeigned. 

And  I,  —  my  youthful  fancies  grown 

The  habit  of  the  man, 
Whose  field  of  life  by  angels  sown 

The  wilding  vines  o'erran,  — 

Low  bowed  in  silent  gratitude, 
My  manhood's  heart  enjoys 

That  reverence  for  the  pure  and  good 
Which  blessed  the  dreaming  boy's. 

Still  shines  the  light  of  holy  lives 
Like  star-beams  over  doubt; 

Each  sainted  memory,  ChristHke,  drives 
Some  dark  possession  out. 


RANTOUL. 


229 


O  friend  !  O  brother  !  not  in  vain 

Thy  life  so  calm  and  true, 
The  silver  dropping  of  the  rain, 

The  fall  of  summer  dew  ! 

How  many  burdened  heartshave  prayed 
Their  lives  like  thine  might  be  ! 

But  more  shall  pray  henceforth  for  aid 
To  lay  them  down  like  thee. 

With  weary  hand,  yet  steadfast  will, 

In  old  age  as  in  youth, 
Thy  Master  found  thee  sowing  still 

The  good  seed  of  his  truth. 

As  on  thy  task-field  closed  the  day 

In  golden-skied  decline, 
His  angel  met  thee  on  the  way, 

And  lent  his  arm  to  thine. 

Thy  latest  care  for  man,  —  thy  last 
Of  earthly  thought  a  prayer,  — 

O,  who  thy  mantle,  backward  cast, 
Is  worthy  now  to  wear? 

Methinks  the  mound  which  marks  thy 
bed       - 

Might  bless  our  land  and  save, 
As  rose,  of  old,  to  life  the  dead 

Who  touched  the  prophet's  grave  ! 


RANTOUL.62 

ONE  day,  along  the  electric  wire 
His  manly  word  for  Freedom  sped  ; 

We  came  next  morn  :  that  tongue  offire 
Said  only,  "  He  who  spake  is  dead  !  " 

Dead  !  while  his  voice  was  living  yet, 
In  echoes  round  the  pillared  dome  ! 

Dead  !  while  his  blotted  page  lay  wet 
With  themes   of  state  and  loves  of 
home  ! 

Dead  !  in  that  crowning  grace  of  time, 
That  triumph  of  life's  zenith  hour  ! 

Dead  !  while  we  watched  his  manhood's 

prime 
Break  from  the  slow  bud  into  flower  ! 


Dead !  he  so  great,  and  strong,   and 

wise, 
While  the  mean  thousands  yet  drew 

breath ; 

How  deepened,  through  that  dread  sur 
prise, 
The  mystery  and  the  awe  of  death  ! 

From  the  high  place  whereon  our  votes 
Had  borne  him,  clear,  calm,  earnest, 
fell 

His  first  words,  like  the  prelude  notes 
Of  some  great  anthem  yet  to  swell. 

We  seemed  to  see  our  flag  unfurled, 
Our  champion  waiting  in  his  place 

For  the  last  battle  of  the  world,  — 
The  Armageddon  of  the  race. 

Through  him  we  hoped  to  speak  the 

word 

Which  wins  the  freedom  of  a  land  ; 
And  lift,  for  human  right,  the  sword 
Which  dropped  from  Hampden's  dy 
ing  hand. 

For  he  had  sat  at  Sidney's  feet, 
And  walked  with   Pym    and  Vane 

apart ; 

And,  through  the  centuries,  felt  the  beat 
Of  Freedom's  march  in  Cromwell's 
heart. 

He  knew  the  paths  the  worthies  held, 
Where   England's    best  and  wisest 

trod  ; 
And,  lingering,  drank  the  springs  that 

welled 
Beneath  the  touch  of  Milton's  rod. 

No  wild  enthusiast  of  the  right, 

Self-poised  and  clear,  he  showed  al- 
way 

The  coolness  of  his  northern  night, 
The  ripe  repose  of  autumn's  day. 

His  steps  were  slow,  yet  forward  still 
He  pressed  where  others  paused  or 

failed ; 

The  calmstarclomb  with  constantwill, — 
The    restless    meteor    flashed    and 
paled! 


330 


MIS  CELL  A  NE  0  US. 


Skilled  in  its  subtlest  wile,  he  knew 
And  owned  the  higher  ends  of  Law; 

Still  rose  majestic  on  his  view 
The  awful  Shape  the  schoolman  saw. 

Her  home  the  heart  of  God  ;  her  voice 
The  choral  harmonies  whereby 

The  stars,  through  all  their  spheres,  re 
joice, 
The  rhythmic  rule  of  earth  and  sky  ! 

We  saw  his  great  powers  misapplied 
To  poor  ambitions  ;  yet,  through  all, 

We  saw  him  take  the  weaker  side, 
And  right  the  wronged,  and  free  the 
thrall. 

Now,  looking  o'er  the  frozen  North 
For  one  like  him  in  word  and  act, 

To  call  her  old,  free  spirit  forth, 
And  give  her  faith  the  life  of  fact,  — 

To  break  her  party  bonds  of  shame, 
And  labor  with  the  zeal  of  him 

To  make  the  Democratic  name 
Of  Liberty  the  synonyme,  — 

We  sweep  the  land  from  hill  to  strand, 
We  seek  the  strong,  the   wise,  the 

brave, 

And,  sad  of  heart,  return  to  stand 
In  silence  by  a  new-made  grave  ! 

There,  where  his  breezy  hills  of  home 
Look  out  upon  his  sail-white  seas, 

The  sounds  of  winds  and  waters  come, 
And  shape  themselves  to  words  like 
these : 

"Why,   murmuring,   mourn    that    he, 
whose  power 

Was  lent  to  Party  over-long, 
Heard  the  still  whisper  at  the  hour 

He  set  his  foot  on  Party  wrong? 

"  The  human  life  that  closed  so  well 
No  lapse  of  folly  now  can  stain  ; 

The  lips  whence  Freedom's  protest  fell 
No  meaner  thought  can  now  profane. 

"  Mightier  than  living  voice  his  grave 
That  lofty  protest  utters  o'er  ; 

Through  roaring  wind  and  smiting  wave 
It  speaks  his  hate   of  wrong  once 
more. 


"  Men  of  the  North  !  your  weak  regret 
Is  wasted  here  ;  arise  and  pay 

To  freedom  and  to  him  your  debt, 
By  following  where  he  led  the  way  !  " 


THE  DREAM    OF    PIO    NONO. 

IT  chanced,   that  while    the    pious 

troops  of  France 
Fought    in    the    crusade    Pio    Nono 

preached, 
What  time  the  holy  Bourbons  stayed 

his  hands 
(The  Hur  and  Aaron  meet  for  such  a 

Moses), 
Stretched  forth  from  Naples   towards 

rebellious  Rome 
To  bless  the  ministry  of  Oudinot, 
And  sanctify  his  iron  homilies 
And  sharp  persuasions  of  the  bayonet, 
That  the  great  pontiff  fell  asleep,  and 

dreamed. 

He  stood  by  Lake  Tiberias,  in  tlw 

sun 
Of  the  bright  Orient ;  and  beheld  tK  » 

lame, 

The  sick,  and  blind,  kneel  at  the  Mas 
ter's  feet, 
And  rise  up  whole.    And,  sweetly  ove/ 

all, 
Dropping  the  ladder  of  their  hymn  of 

praise 
From  heaven  to  earth,  in  silver  rounds 

of  song, 
He   heard  the  blessed  angels  sing  f-f 

peace, 
Good-will   to  man,  and  glory  to  thus 

Lord. 

Then  one,  with  feet  unshod,  and 
leathern  face 

Hardened  and  darkened  by  fierce  sum 
mer  suns 

And  hot  winds  of  the  desert,  closer 
drew 

His  fisher's  haick,  and  girded  up  his 
loins, 

And  spake,  as  one  who  had  authority: 

"  Come  thou  with  me." 


TAULER. 


231 


Lakeside  and  eastern  sky 
And  the  sweet  song  of  angels  passed 

away, 

And,  with  a  dream's  alacrity  of  change, 
The  priest,  and  the  swart  fisher  by  his 

side, 

Beheld  the  Eternal  City  lift  its  domes 
And  solemn  fanes  and  monumental 

pomp 
Above  the  waste  Campagna.     On  the 

hills 

The  blaze  of  burning  villas  rose  and  fell, 
And  momently  the  mortar's  iron  throat 
Roared  from  the  trenches  ;  and,  within 

the  walls, 

Sharp  crash  of  shells,  low  groans  of  hu 
man  pain, 
Shout,  drum   beat,  and  the   clanging 

larum-bell, 
And  tramp  of  hosts,  sent  up  a  mingled 

sound, 
Half  wail  and  half  defiance.     As  they 

passed 
The  gate   of   San   Pancrazio,   human 

blood 
Flowed  ankle-high  about   them,   and 

dead  men 
Choked  the  long  street  with  gashed 

and  gory  piles,  — 

A  ghastly  barricade  of  mangled  flesh, 
From  which,  at  times,  quivered  a  living 

hand, 
And  white  lips  moved  and  moaned.     A 

father  tore 

His  gray  hairs,  by  the  body  of  his  son, 
In  frenzy  ;  and  his  fair  young  daughter 

wept 

On  his  old  bosom.  Suddenly  a  flash 
Clove  the  thick  sulphurous  air,  and 

man  and  maid 
Sank,   crushed   and  mangled    by  the 

shattering  shell. 

Then  spake  the  Galilean  :  "  Thou 

hast  seen 
The  blessed  Master  and  his  works  of 

love ; 
Look  now  on  thine  !     Hear'st  thou  the 

angels  sing 
Above  this   open   hell?     Thou  God's 

high-priest ! 
Thou  the  Vicegerent  of  the  Prince  of 

Peace  ! 
Thou  the  successor  of  his  chosen  ones ! 


T,  Peter,  fisherman  of  Galilee, 

In  the  dear  Master's  name,  and  for 
the  love 

Of  his  true  Church,  proclaim  thee  Anti 
christ, 

Alien  and  separate  from  his  holy  faith, 

Wide  as  the  difference  between  death 
and  life, 

The  hate  of  man  and  the  great  love  of 
God! 

Hence,  and  repent !  " 

Thereat  the  pontiff  woke, 

Trembling,  and  muttering  o'er  his  fear 
ful  dream. 

"What  means  he?"  cried  the  Bour 
bon.  "  Nothing  more 

Than  that  your  majesty  hath  all  too 
well 

Catered  for  your  poor  guests,  and  that, 
in  sooth, 

The  Holy  Father's  supper  troubleth 
him," 

Said  Cardinal  Antonelli,  with  a  smile. 


TAULER. 

TAULER,  the  preacher,  walked,  one 

autumn  day, 
Without  the  walls  of  Strasburg,  by  the 

Rhine, 

Pondering  the  solemn  Miracle  of  Life ; 
As  one  who,  wandering  in  a  starless 

night, 
Feels,    momently,   the   jar  of  unseen 

waves, 
And  hears  the  thunder  of  an  unknown 

sea, 
Breaking  along  an  unimagined  shore. 

And  as  he  walked  he  prayed.     Even 

the  same 
Old  prayer  with  which,  for  half  a  score 

of  years, 
Morning,  and  noon,  and  evening,  lip 

and  heart 
Had  groaned :  "  Have  pity  upon  me, 

Lord! 
Thou  seest,  while  teaching  others,  I 

am  blind. 
Send  me  a  man  who  can  direct  my 

steps  ! " 


232 


MIS  CELL  A  NEO  US. 


Then,  as  he  mused,  he  heard  along 

his  path 

A  sound  as  of  an  old  man's  staff  among 
The  dry,  dead  linden-leaves ;  and,  look 
ing  up, 

He  saw  a  stranger,  weak,  aiid  poor, 
and  old. 

"  Peace  be  unto  thee,  father !  "  Tau 
ler  said, 

"  God  give  thee  a  good  day  !  "  The 
old  man  raised 

Slowly  his  calm  blue  eyes,  "I  thank 
thee,  son  ; 

But  all  my  days  are  good,  and  none 
are  ill." 

Wondering    thereat,    the    preacher 

spake  again, 
"God  give  thee  happy  life."    The  old 

man  smiled, 
"  I  never  am  unhappy." 

Tauler  laid 
His  hand  upon  the  stranger's  coarse 

gray  sleeve : 
"  Tell  me,  O  father,  what  thy  strange 

words  mean. 
Surely  man's  days  are  evil,   and  his 

life 
Sad  as  the  grave  it  leads  to."     "  Nay, 

my  son, 
Our  times  are  in  God's  hands,  and  all 

our  days 
Are  as  our  needs  :   for  shadow  as  for 

sun, 
For  cold  as  heat,  for  want  as  wealth, 

alike 
Our  thanks  are  due,  since  that  is  best 

which  is  ; 
And  that  which  is  not,  sharing  not  his 

.  life, 

Is  evil  only  as  devoid  of  good. 
And  for  the  happiness  of  which  I  spake, 
I  find  it  in  submission  to  his  will, 
And  calm  trust  in  the  holy  Trinity 
Of   Knowledge,    Goodness,    and    Al 
mighty   Power." 

Silently  wondering,  for  a  little  space, 
Stood  the  great     preacher;     then   he 

spake  as  one 

Who,  suddenly  grappling  with  a  haunt 
ing  thought 


Which  long  has  followed,  whispering 

through  the  dark 
Strange  terrors,  drags  it,  shrieking,  into 

light : 
"What  if  God's  will  consign  thee  hence 

to  Hell?" 

"  Then,"  said  the  stranger,  cheerily, 

"be  it  so. 
What  Hell  may  be  I  know  not ;  this  I 

know,  — 

I  cannot  lose  the  presence  of  the  Lord  : 
One  arm,  Humility,  takes  hold  upon 
His  dear  Humanity  ;  the  other,  Love, 
Clasps  his  Divinity.     So  where  I  go 
He  goes  ;  and  better  fire-walled  Hell 

with  Him 
Than  golden-gated  Paradise  without." 

Tears  sprang  in   Tauler' s  eyes.    A 

sudden  light, 
Like  the  first  ray  which  fell  on  chaos, 

clove 
Apart    the    shadow    wherein    he    had 

walked 
Darkly  at  noon.    And,  as  the  strange 

old  man 

Went  his  slow  way,  until  his  silver  hair 
Set  like  the  white  moon  where  the  hills 

of  vine 
Slope  to  the  Rhine,  he  bowed  his  head 

and  said  : 
"  My  prayer  is  answered.     God  hath 

sent  the  man 

Long  sought,  to  teach  me,  by  his  sim 
ple  trust 
Wisdom   the  weary  schoolmen  never 

knew." 

So,   entering  with  a    changed    and 

cheerful  step 
The  city  gates,  he  saw,  far  down  the 

street, 
A  mighty  shadow  break  the  light  of 

noon, 
Which  tracing  backward  till  its  airy 

lines 
Hardened  to   stony  plinths,  he  raised 

his  eyes 

O'er  broad  facade  and  lofty  pediment, 
O'er  architrave  and  frieze  and  sainted 

uiche, 
Up  vhe  stone  lace-worK  chiselled  by 

tue  wise 


THE    VOICES. 


233 


Erwin  of  Steinbach,  dizzily  up  to  where 

In  the  noon-brightness  the  great  Min 
ster's  tower, 

Jewelled  with  sunbeams  on  its  mural 
crown, 

Rose  like  a  visible  prayer.  "  Behold  !  " 
he  said, 

"  The  stranger's  faith  made  plain  be 
fore  mine  eyes. 

As  yonder  tower  outstretches  to  the 
earth 

The  dark  triangle  of  its  shade  alone 

When  the  clear  day  is  shining  on  its 
top, 

So,  darkness  in  the  pathway  of  Man's 
life 

Is  but  the  shadow  of  God's  providence, 

By  the  great  Sun  of  Wisdom  cast 
thereon  ; 

And  what  is  dark  below  is  light  in 
Heaven." 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  READING  A  STATE  PA 
PER,  WHEREIN  THE  HIGHER  LAW  IS 
INVOKED  TO  SUSTAIN  THE  LOWER 
ONE. 

A  PIOUS  magistrate  !  sound  his  praise 

throughout 
The  wondering  churches.     Who  shall 

henceforth  doubt 
That     the    long-wished    millennium 

draweth  nigh  ? 

Sin  in  high  places  has  become  devout, 
Tithes  mint,  goes  painful-faced,  and 

prays  its  lie 

Straight  up  to  Heaven,  and  calls  it 
piety ! 

The  pirate,  watching  from  his  bloody 

deck 

The  weltering  galleon,   heavy  with 
the  gold 

Of  Acapulco,  holding  death  in  check 
While  prayers  are  said,  brows  crossed, 
and  beads  are  told,  — 

The  robber,  kneeling  where  the  way 
side  cross 

On  dark  Abruzzo  tells  of  life's  dread 
loss 


From   his  own  carbine,   glancing  still 

abroad 
For  some  new  victim,  offering  thanks 

to  God  !  — 

Rome,  listening  at  her  altars  to  the  cry 
Of  midnight  Murder,  while  her  hounds 

of  hell 
Scour   France,  from  baptized    cannon 

and  holy  bell 
And  thousand-throated    priesthood, 

loud  and  high, 

Pealing  Te  Deums  to  the  shudder 
ing  sky, 
"  Thanks  to  the  Lord,  who  giveth 

victory  ! " 
What  prove  these,  but  that  crime  was 

ne'er  so  black 
As  ghostly  cheer  and  pious  thanks  to 

lack? 
Satan  is   modest.     At   Heaven's  door 

he  lays 
His  evil   offspring,  and,  in  Scriptural 

phrase 
And  saintly  posture,  gives  to  God  the 

praise 

And  honor  of  the  monstrous  progeny. 
What  marvel,  then,  in  our  own  time 

to  see 

His  old  devices,  smoothly  acted  o'er,  — 
Official  piety,  locking  fast  the  door 
Of  Hope  against  three  million  souls  of 

men,  — 

Brothers,  God's  children,  Christ's  re 
deemed,  —  and  then, 
With  uprolled  eyeballs  and  on  bended 

knee, 
Whining  a  prayer  for  help  to  hide  the 

key  ! 


THE  VOICES. 

"  WHY  urge  the  long,  unequal  fight, 
Since  Truth  has  fallen  in  the  street, 

Or  lift  anew  the  trampled  light, 
Quenched  by  the  heedless  million's 
feet? 

"  Give   o'er  the   thankless   task ;   for 
sake 
The   fools  who  know  not   ill  from 

good  ; 

Eat,  drink,  enjoy  thy  own,  and  take 
Thine  ease  among  the  multitude. 


234 


MIS  CELL  A  NEOUS. 


"  Live  out  thyself;  with  others  share 
Thy  proper  life  no  more  ;  assume 

The  unconcern  of  sun  and  air, 

For  life  or  death,  or  blight  or  bloom. 

"  The  mountain  pine  looks  calmly  on 
The   fires  that  scourge    the    plains 
below, 

Nor  heeds  the  eagle  in  the  sun 

The  small  birds  piping  in  the  snow  ! 

"  The  world  is  God's,  not  thine ;  let 
him 

Work  out  a  change,  if  change  must  be  : 
The  hand  that  planted  best  can  trim 

And  nurse  the  old  unfruitful  tree." 

So  spake  the  Tempter,  when  the  light 
Of  sun  and  stars  had  left  the  sky, 

I  listened,  through  the  cloud  and  night, 
And  heard,  methought,  a  voice  re 
ply: 

"Thy  task  may  well  seem  over-hard, 
Who  scatterest  in  a  thankless  soil 

Thy  life  as  seed,  with  no  reward 
Save  that  which  Duty  gives  to  Toil. 

"  Not  wholly  is  thy  heart  resigned 
To  Heaven's  benign  and  just  decree, 

Which,  linking  thee  with  all  thy  kind, 
Transmits  their  joys  and  griefs  to  thee. 

*'  Break    off  that    sacred    chain,    and 

turn 

Back  on  thyself  thy  love  and  care  ; 
Be  thou  thine  own  mean  idol,  burn 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Trust,  thy  children, 
there. 

"  Released  from  that  fraternal  law 
Which  shares  the  common  bale  and 
bliss, 

No  sadder  lot  could  Folly  draw, 

Or  Sin  provoke  from  Fate,  than  this. 

"  The  meal  unshared  is  food  unblest ; 

Thou   hoard'st   in    vain    what    love 

should  spend  ; 
Self-ease  is  pain  ;  thy  only  rest 

Is  labor  for  a  worthy  end. 

"  A  toil  that  gains  with  what  it  yields, 
And  scatters  to  its  own  increase, 


And  hears,  while  sowing  outward  fields, 
The  harvest-song  of  inward  peace. 

"  Free-lipped  the  liberal  streamlets  run, 
Free  shines  for  all  the  healthful  ray  ; 

The  still  pool  stagnates  in  the  sun, 
The  lurid  earth-fire  haunts  decay  ! 

"  What  is  it,  that  the  crowd  requite 
Thy.  love  with  hate,  thy  truth  with 
lies? 

And  but  to  faith,  and  not  to  sight, 
The  walls  of  Freedom's  temple  rise? 

"  Yet  dp  thy  work  ;  it  shall  succeed 
In  thine  or  in  another's  day ; 

And,  if  denied  the  victor's  meed, 
Thou  shall  not  lack  the  toiler's  pay. 

"  Faith  shares  the   future's  promise ; 
Love's 

Self-offering  is  a  triumph  won  ; 
And  each  good  thought  or  action  moves 

The  dark  world  nearer  to  the  sun. 

"  Then  faint  not,  falter  not,  nor  plead 
Thy  weakness  ;  truth  itself  is  strong ; 

The  lion's  strength,  the  eagle's  speed, 
Are  not  alone  vouchsafed  to  wrong. 

"  Thy  nature,  which,  through  fire  and 
flood, 

To  place  or  gain  finds  oflt  its  way, 
Hath  power  to  seek  the  highest  good, 

And  duty's  holiest  call  obey  ! 

"  Strivest  thou    in    darkness? — Foes 

without 

In  league  with  traitor  thoughts  with 
in  : 
Thy  night-watch  kept  with  trembling 

Doubt 

And     pale   Remorse    the    ghost    of 
Sin?  — 

"  Hast  thou  not,  on  some  week  of  storm, 
Seen  the  sweet  Sabbath  breaking  fair, 

And  cloud  and  shadow,  sunlit,  form 
The  curtains  of  its  tent  of  prayer? 

"  So,  haply,  when  thy  task  shall  end, 
The  wrong  shall  lose  itself  in  right, 

And  all  thy  week-day  darkness  blend 
With  the  long  Sabbath  of  the  light !  " 


THE  HERO. 


335 


THE  HERO. 

"  O  FOR  a  knight  like  Bayard, 

Without  reproach  or  fear  ; 
My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel, 

My  love-knot  on  his  spear  ! 

"  O  for  the  white  plume  floating 
Sad  Zutphen's  field  above,  — 

The  lion  heart  in  battle, 
The  woman's  heart  in  love  ! 

O  that  man  once  more  were  manly, 
Woman's  pride,  and  not  her  scorn  : 
That  once  more  the  pale  young  mother 
Dared  to  boast  '  a  man  is  born '  ! 

;  But,  now  life's  slumberous  current 

No  sun -bowed  cascade  wakes  ; 
No  tall,  heroic  manhood 
The  level  dulness  breaks. 

;  O  for  a  knight  like  Bayard, 
Without  reproach  or  fear  ! 
My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel, 
My  love-knot  on  his  spear  !  " 

Then  I  said,  my  own  heart  throbbing 
To  the  time  her  proud  pulse  beat, 

"  Life  hath  its  regal  natures  yet,  — 
True,  tender,  brave,  and  sweet  I 

"  Smile  not,  fair  unbeliever  ! 

One  man,  at  least,  I  know, 
Who  might  wear  the  crest  of  Bayard 

Or  Sidney's  plume  of  snow. 

"  Once,  when  over  purple  mountains 
Died  away  the  Grecian  sun, 

And  the  far  Cyllenian  ranges 

Paled  and  darkened,  one  by  one,  — 

"  Fell  the  Turk,  a  bolt  of  thunder, 

Cleaving  all  the  quiet  sky, 
And  against  his  sharp  steel  lightnings 

Stood  the  Suliote  but  to  die. 

"  Woe  for  the  weak  and  halting  ! 

The  crescent  blazed  behind 
A  curving  line  of  sabres. 

Like  fire  before  the  wind  ! 


"  Last  to  fly  and  first  to  rally, 

Rode  he  of  whom  I  speak, 
When,  groaning  in  his  bridle-path, 

Sank  down  a  wounded  Greek. 

"  With  the  rich  Albanian  costume 
Wet  with  many  a  ghastly  stain, 

Gazing  on  earth  and  sky  as  one 
Who  might  not  gaze  again  ! 

"  He  looked  forward  to  the  mountains, 
Back  on  foes  that  never  spare, 

Then  flung  him  from  his  saddle, 
And  placed  the  stranger  there. 

" '  Allah  !  hu  ! '    Through  flashing  sa 
bres, 

Through  a  stormy  hail  of  lead, 
The  good  Thessalian  charger 

Up  the  slopes  of  olives  sped. 

"  Hot  spurred  the  turbaned  riders ; 

He  almost  felt  their  breath, 
Where  a  mountain  stream  rolled  dark 
ly  down 

Between  the  hills  and  death. 

"  One  brave  and  manful  struggle,  — 

He  gained  the  solid  land, 
And  the  cover  of  the  mountains, 

And  the  carbines  of  his  band  !  " 

"  It  was  very  great  and  noble," 
Said  the  moist-eyed  listener  then, 

"  But  one  brave  deed  makes  no  hero  ; 
Tell  me  what  he  since  hath  been  !  " 

"  Still  a  brave  and  generous  manhood, 
Still  an  honor  without  stain, 

In  the  prison  of  the  Kaiser, 
By  the  barricades  of  Seine. 

"  But  dream  not  helm  and  harness 

The  sign  of  valor  true  ; 
Peace  hath  higher  tests  of  manhood 

Than  battle  ever  knew. 

"Wouldst  know  him  now?     Behold 
him, 

The  Cadmus  of  the  blind, 
Giving  the  dumb  lip  language, 

The  idiot  clay  a  mind. 


236 


MIS  CELL  A  NE  0  US. 


"Walking  his  round  of  duty 

Serenely  day  by  day, 
With  the  strong  man's  hand  of  labor 

And  childhood's  heart  of  play. 

"  True  as  the  knights  of  story, 

Sir  Lancelot  and  his  peers, 
Brave  in  his  calm  endurance 

As  they  in  tilt  of  spears. 

"  As  waves  in  stillest  waters, 

As  stars  in  noonday  skies, 
All  that  wakes  to  noble  action 

In  his  noon  of  calmness  lies. 

"  Wherever  outraged  Nature 

Asks  word  or  action  brave, 
Wherever  struggles  labor,  .   . 

Wherever  groans  a  slave,  — 

"  Wherever  rise  the  peoples, 

Wherever  sinks  a  throne, 
The  throbbing  heart  of  Freedom  finds 

An  answer  in  his  own. 

"  Knight  of  a  better  era, 

Without  reproach  or  fear  ! 
Said  I  not  well  that  Bayards 

And  Sidneys  still  are  here  ?  " 


MY  DREAM. 

IN  my  dream,  methought  I  trod, 
Yesternight,  a  mountain  road  ; 
Narrow  as  Al  Sirat's  span, 
High  as  eagle's  flight,  it  ran. 

Overhead,  a  roof  of  cloud 
With  its  weight  of  thunder  bowed  ; 
Underneath,  to  left  and  right, 
Blankness  and  abysmal  night. 

Here  and  there  a  wild-flower  blushed, 
Now  and  then  a  bird-song  gushed  ; 
Now  and  then,  through  rifts  of  shade, 
Stars  shone  out,  and  sunbeams  played. 

But  the  goodly  company, 
Walking  in  that  path  with  me, 
One  by  one  the  brink  o'erslid, 
One  by  one  the  darkness  hid. 


Some  with  wailing  and  lament, 
Some  with  cheerful  courage  went : 
But,  of  all  who  smiled  or  mournea, 
Never  one  to  us  returned. 

Anxiously,  with  eye  and  ear, 
Questioning  that  shadow  drear, 
Never  hand  in  token  stirred, 
Never  answering  voice  I  heard  1 

Steeper,  darker  !  — lo  !  I  felt 
From  my  feet  the  pathway  melt. 
Swallowed  by  the  black  despair, 
And  the  hungry  jaws  of  air, 

Past  the  stony-throated  caves, 
Strangled  by  the  wash  of  waves, 
Past  the  splintered  crags,  I  sank 
On  a  green  and  flowery  bank,  — 

Soft  as  fall  of  thistle-down, 
Lightly  as  a  cloud  is  blown, 
Soothingly  as  childhood  pressed 
To  the  bosom  of  its  rest. 

Of  the  sharp-horned  rocks  instead, 
Green  the  grassy  meadows  spread, 
Bright  with  waters  singing  by 
Trees  that  propped  a  golden  sky. 

Painless,  trustful,  sorrow- free, 
Old  lost  faces  welcomed  me, 
With  whose  sweetness  of  content 
Still  expectant  hope  was  blent. 

Waking  while  the  dawning  gray 
Slowly  brightened  into  day, 
Pondering  that  vision  fled, 
Thus  unto  myself  I  said  :  — 

"  Steep,  and  hung  with  clouds  of  strife, 
Is  our  narrow  path  of  life  ; 
And  our  death  the  dreaded  fall 
Through  the  dark,  awaiting  all. 

"  So,  with  painful  steps  we  climb 
Up  the  dizzy  ways  of  time, 
Ever  in  the  shadow  shed 
By  the  forecast  of  our  dread. 

"  Dread  of  mystery  solved  alone, 
Of  the  untried  and  unknown  ; 
Yet  the  end  thereof  may  seem 
Like  the  falling  of  my  dream. 


THE   BAREFOOT  BOY, 


*'  And  this  heart-consuming  care, 
All  our  fears  of  here  or  there, 
Change  and  absence,  loss  and  death, 
Prove  but  simple  lack  of  faith." 

Thou,  O  Most  Compassionate  ! 
Who  didst  stoop  to  our  estate, 
Drinking  of  the  cup  we  drain, 
Treading  in  our  path  of  pain,  — 

Through  the  doubt  and  mystery, 
Grant  to  us  thy  steps  to  see, 
And  the  grace  to  draw  from  thence 
Larger  hope  and  confidence. 

Show  thy  vacant  tomb,  and  let, 
As  of  old,  the  angels  sit, 
Whispering,  by  its  open  door  : 
"  Fear  not !   He  hath  gone  before  !  " 


THE   BAREFOOT  BOY. 

BLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 
With  thy  red  "lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace  ; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy,  — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy  ! 
Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy  : 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 

O  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  clay, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 


How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  groundnut  trails'its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine ; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  !  — 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

O  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees  ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade  ; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  thenight, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides  1 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too  ; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy ! 

O  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread,  — 
Pewter 'spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude  ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra  ; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 


233 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I  was  monarch  :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat  : 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground  ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 


FLOWERS  IN  WINTER. 

PAINTED   UPON   A    PORTE   LIVRE. 

How  strange  to  greet,  this  frosty  morn, 
In  graceful  counterfeit  of  flowers, 

These  children  of  the  meadows,  born 
Of  sunshine  and  of  showers  ! 

How  well  the  conscious  wood  retains 
The    pictures    of  its    flower  -  sown 
home,  — 

The  lights  and  shades,  the  purple  stains, 
And  golden  hues  of  bloom  ! 

It  was  a  happy  thought  to  bring 
To  the  dark  season's  frost  and  rime 

This  painted  memory  of  spring, 
This  dream  of  summer-time. 

Our  hearts  are  lighter  for  its  sake, 
Our  fancy's  age  renews  its  youth, 

And  dim-remembered  fictions  take 
The  guise  of  present  truth. 

A  wizard  of  the  Merrimack,  — 
So  old  ancestral  legends  say,  — 


Could  call  green  leaf  and  blossom  back 
To  frosted  stem  and  spray. 

The  dry  logs  of  the  cottage  wall, 
Beneath    his  touch,   put    out    their 
leaves  ; 

The  clay-bound  swallow,  at  his  call, 
Played  round  the  icy  eaves. 

The  settler  saw  his  oaken  flail 

Take  bud,  and  bloom  before  his  eyes  ; 

From  frozen  pools  he  saw  the  pale, 
Sweet  summer  lilies  rise. 

To  their  old  homes,  by  man  profaned, 
Came  the  sad  dryads,  exiled  long, 

And  through  their  leafy  tongues  com 

plained 
Of  household  use  and  wrong. 

The  beechen  platter  sprouted  wild, 
The  pipkin  wore  its  old-time  green  ; 

The  cradle  o'er  the  sleeping  child 
Became  a  leafy  screen. 


Ha 


aply  our  gentle  friend  hath  met, 
While  wandering  in  her  sylvan  quest, 


ng  in  her  sylvan  qu 
tive  woodlands 
uid  of  the  West  ;  — 


Haunting  his  native  woodlands  yet, 
That  Drui 


And,  while  the  dew  on  leaf  and  flower 
Glistened   in    moonlight    clear    and 

still, 
Learned    the    dusk  wizard's    spell   of 

power, 
And  caught  his  trick  of  skill. 

But  welcome,  be  it  new  or  old, 
The  gift  which  makes  the  day  more 
bright, 

And  paints,  upon  the  ground  of  cold 
And  darkness,  warmth  and  light  ! 

Without  is  neither  gold  nor  green  ; 

Within,  for  birds,  the  birch-logs  sing; 
Yet,  summer-like,  we  sit  between 

The  autumn  and  the  spring. 

The  one,  with  bridal  blush  of  rose, 
And  sweetest    breath   of   woodland 
balm, 

And  one  whose  matron  lips  unclose 
In  smiles  of  saintly  calm. 


LINES: 


239 


Fill  soft  and  deep,  O  winter  snow  ! 

The  sweet  azalia's  oaken  dells, 
And  hide  the  bank  where  roses  blow, 

And  swing  the  azure  bells  ! 

O'erlay  the  amber  violet's  leaves, 
The  purple  aster's  brookside  home, 

Guard  all  the  flowers  her  pencil  gives 
A  life  beyond  their  bloom. 

And  she,  when  spring  comes  round 
again, 

By  greening  slope  and  singing  flood 
Shall  wander,  seeking,  not  in  vain, 

Her  darlings  of  the  wood. 


THE  RENDITION. 

I  HEARD  the  train's  shrill  whistle  call, 
I  saw  an  earnest  look  beseech, 
And  rather  by  that  look  than  speech 

My  neighbor  told  me  all. 

And,  as  I  thought  of  Liberty 

Marched    hand-cuffed    down     that 
sworded  street, 

The  solid  earth  beneath  my  feet 
Reeled  fluid  as  the  sea. 

I  felt  a  sense  of  bitter  loss,  — 

Shame,   tearless    grief,   and    stifling 
wrath. 

And  loathing  fear,  as  if  my  path 
A  serpent  stretched  across. 

All  love  of  home,  all  pride  of  place, 
All  generous  confidence  and  trust, 
Sank  smothering  in  that  deep  disgust 

And  anguish  of  disgrace. 

Down  on  my  native  hills  of  June, 
And  home's  green  quiet,  hiding  all, 
Fell  sudden  darkness  like  the  fall 

Of  midnight  upon  noon  ! 

And  Law,  an  unloosed  maniac,  strong, 
Blood-drunken,  through   the   black 
ness  trod, 
Hoarse-shouting  in  the  ear  of  God 

The  blasphemy  of  wrong. 


"  O  Mother,  from  thy  memories  proud. 
Thy  old  renown,  dear  Commonwealth, 
Lend  this  dead  air  a  breeze  of  health, 

And  smite  with  stars  this  cloud. 

"  Mother  of  Freedom,  wise  and  brave, 
Rise  awful  in  thy  strength,"  I  said  ; 
Ah  me  !  I  spake  but  to  the  dead; 

I  stood  upon  her  grave  ! 
6tk  mo.,  1854. 


LINES, 

ON  THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  BILL  TO 
PROTECT  THE  RIGHTS  AND  LIBER 
TIES  OF  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE 
STATE  AGAINST  THE  FUGITIVE 
SLAVE  ACT. 

I  SAID  I  stood  upon  thy  grave, 
My  Mother  State,  when  last  the  moon 
Of  blossoms  clomb  the  skies  of  June. 

And,  scattering  ashes  on  my  head, 
I  wore,  undreaming  of  relief, 
The  sackcloth  of  thy  shame  and  grief. 

Again  that  moon  of  blossoms  shines 
On  leaf  and  flower  and  folded  wing, 
And  thou  hast  risen  with  the  spring  ! 

Once  more  thy  strong  maternal  arms 
Are  round  about  thy  children  flung,  — 
A  lioness  that  guards  her  young  ! 

No  threat  is  on  thy  closed  lips, 
But  in  thine  eye  a  power  to  smite 
The   mad  wolf  backward    from    its 
light. 

Southward  the  baffled  robber's  track 
Henceforth  runs  only  ;  hereaway, 
The  fell  lycanthrope  finds  no  prey. 

Henceforth,  within  thy  sacred  gates, 
His  first  low  howl  shall  downward 

draw 
The  thunder  of  thy  righteous  law. 

Not  mindless  of  thy  trade  and  gain, 
But,  acting  on  the  wiser  plan, 
Thou  'rt  grown  conservative  of  man. 


240 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


So  shalt  thou  clothe  with  life  the  hope, 
Dream-painted  on  the  sightless  eyes 
Of  him  who  sang  of  Paradise,  — 

The  vision  of  a  Christian  man, 
In  virtue  as  in  stature  great, 
Embodied  in  a  Christian  State. 

And  thou,  amidst  thy  sisterhood 
Forbearing  long,  yet  standing  fast, 
Shalt  win  their  grateful  thanks  at  last ; 

When  North  and  South  shall  strive  no 

more, 

And  all  their  feuds  and  fears  be  lost 
In  Freedom's  holy  Pentecost. 

6t/i  mo.,  1855. 


THE  FRUIT-GIFT. 

LAST  night,  just  as  the  tints  of  autumn's 

sky 
Of  sunset  faded  from  our  hills  and 

streams, 

I  sat,  vague  listening,  lapped  in  twi 
light  dreams, 

To  the  leafs  rustle,  and  the  cricket's 
cry. 

Then,  like  that  basket,  flush  with  sum 
mer  fruit, 

Dropped  by  the  angels  at  the  Prophet's 
foot, 

Came,  unannounced,  a  gift  of  clustered 

sweetness, 

Full-orbed,    and  glowing    with    the 
prisoned  beams 

Of  summery  suns,  and,  rounded  to  com 
pleteness 

By  kisses  of  the  south-wind  and  the  dew. 

Thrilled  with  a  glad  surprise,  methought 
I  knew 

The  pleasure  of  the  homeward-turning 
Jew, 

When   Eschol's  clusters  on  his  shoul 
ders  lay, 

Dropping  their  sweetness  on  his  desert 
way. 

I  said,  "This  fruit  beseems  no  wrorld 

of  sin. 

Its  parent  vine,  rooted  in  Paradise, 
O'ercrept  the  wall,  and  never  paid 

the  price 


Of  the  great  mischief,  —  an  ambrosial 

tree, 

Eden's  exotic,  somehow  smuggled  in, 
To  keep  the  thorns  and  thistles  corn- 
pan}'." 
Perchance  our  frail,  sad  mother  plucked 

in  haste 
A  single  vine-slip  as  she  passed  the 

gate, 
Where  the  dread  sword,  alternate  paled 

and  burned, 

And  the  stern  angel,  pitying  her  fate, 
Forgave    the    lovely    trespasser,    and 

turned 
Aside  his  face  of  fire ;   and  thus  the 

waste 
And  fallen  world  hath  yet  its  annual 

taste 

Of  primal  good,  to  prove  of  sin  the  cost, 
And    show    by   one    gleaned  ear  the 

mighty  harvest  lost. 


A  MEMORY. 

HERE,  while  the  loom  of  Winter  weaves 
The  shroud  of  flowers  and  fountains, 

I  think  of  thee  and  summer  eves 
Among  the  Northern  mountains. 

When  thundertolledthe twilight's  close, 
And  winds  the  lake  were  rude  on, 

And  thou  wert  singing,  Co1  the  Yowes, 
The  bonny  yowes  of  Cluden  ! 

When,  close  and  closer,  hushing  breath, 
Our  circle  narrowed  round  thee, 

And  smiles  and  tears  made  up  the  wreath 
Wherewith  our  silence  crowned  thee ; 

And,  strangers  all,  we  felt  the  ties 

Of  sisters  and  of  brothers  ; 
Ah  !  whose  of  all  those  kindly  eyes 

Now  smile  upon  another's  ? 

The  sport  of  Time,  who  still  apart 
The  waifs  of  life  is  flinging  ; 

O,  nevermore  shall  heart  to  heart 
Draw  nearer  for  that  singing  ! 

Yet  when  the  panes  are  frosty-starred, 
And  twilight's  fire  is  gleaming, 


THE   KANSAS  EMIGRANTS. 


241 


I  hear  the  songs  of  Scotland's  bard 
Sound  softly  through  my  dreaming  ! 

A  song  that  lends  to  winter  snows 
The  glow  of  summer  weather,  — 

Again  I  hear  thee  ca'  the  yowes 
To  Cluden's  hills  of  heather  I 


TO  C.   S. 

IF  I  have  seemed  more  prompt  to  cen 
sure  wrong 
Than  praise  the  right ;  if  seldom  to 

thine  ear 

My  voice  hath  mingled  with  the  ex 
ultant  cheer 

Borne   upon  all  our   Northern  winds 
along  ; 

If  I  have  failed  to  join  the  fickle  throng 

In  wide-eyed  wonder,  that  thou  stand- 
est  strong 

In  victory,  surprised  in  thee  to  find 

Brougham's  scathing  power  with  Can 
ning's  grace  combined  ; 

That  he,  for  whom  the  ninefold  Muses 
sang, 

From  their  twined  arms  a  giant  athlete 
sprang, 

Barbing  the  arrows  of  his  native  tongue 

With  the  spent  shafts  Latona's  archer 
flung, 

To  smite  the  Python  of  our  land  and 
time, 

Fell  as  the  monster  born  of  Crissa's 
slime, 

Like  the  blind  bard  who  in  Castalian 
springs 

Tempered  the  steel  that  clove  the  crest 
of  kings, 

And  on  the  shrine  of  England's  free 
dom  laid 

The  gifts  of  Cumae   and   of  Delphi's 
shade,  — 

Small  need  hast  thou  of  words  of  praise 

from  me. 
Thou  knowest  my  heart,  dear  friend, 

and  well  canst  guess 
That,  even  though  silent,  I  have  not 
the  less 

Rejoiced  to  see  thy  actual  life  agree 

With  the  large  future  which  I  shaped 
for  thee, 

16 


When,  years  ago,  beside  the  summer 
sea, 

White  in  the  moon,  we  saw  the  long 
waves  fall 

Bafiled  and  broken  from  the  rocky  wall, 

That,  to   the  menace  of  the  brawling 
flood, 

Opposed  alone  its  massive  quietude, 

Calm  as  a  fate  ;  with  not  a  leaf  nor  vine 

Nor  birch-spray  trembling  in  the  still 
moonshine, 

Crowning  it  like  God's  peace.     I  some 
times  think 

That  night-scene  by  the  sea  prophet 
ical,  — 

(For  Nature  speaks  in  symbols  and  in 
signs, 

And  through  her  pictures  human  fate 
divines),  — 

That  rock,  wherefrom  we  saw  the  bil 
lows  sink 

In   murmuring   rout,    uprising  clear 
and  tall 

In  the  white  light  of  heaven,  the  type 
of  one 

Who,  momently  by   Error's  host  as 
sailed, 

Stands  strong  as  Truth,  in  greaves  of 

granite  mailed  ; 

And,  tranquil-fronted,  listening  over 
all 

The  tumult,  hears  the  angels  say,  Well 
done ! 


THE  KANSAS   EMIGRANTS. 

WE  cross  the  prairie  as  of  old 
The  pilgrims  crossed  the  sea, 

To  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 
The  homestead  of  the  free  ! 

We  go  to  rear  a  wall  of  men 
On  Freedom's  southern  line, 

And  plant  beside  the  cotton-tree 
The  rugged  Northern  pine  ! 

We  're  flowing  from  our  native  hills 

As  our  free  rivers  flow  ; 
The  blessing  of  our  Mother-land 

Is  on  us  as  we  go. 

We  go  to  plant  her  common  schools 
On  distant  prairie  swells, 


MI SC ELL  A  NEOUS. 


And  give  the  Sabbaths  of  the  wild 
The  music  of  her  bells. 

Upbearing,  like  the  Ark  of  old, 

The  Bible  in  our  van, 
We  go  to  test  the  truth  of  God 

Against  the  fraud  of  man. 

No  pause,  nor  rest,   save   where   the 
streams 

That  feed  the  Kansas  run, 
Save  where  our  Pilgrim  gonfalon 

Shall  rlout  the  setting  sun  ! 

We  '11  tread  the  prairie  as  of  old 

Our  fathers  sailed  the  sea, 
And  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 

The  homestead  of  the  free  ! 


SONG  OF  SLAVES   IN  THE 
DESERTS 

WHERE  are  we  going?  where  are  we 

going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

Lord  of  peoples,  lord  of  lands, 
Look  across  these  shining  sands, 
Through  the  furnace  of  the  noon, 
Through  the  white  light  of  the  moon. 
Strong  the  Ghiblee  wind  is  blowing, 
Strange  and  large  the  world  is  growing  ! 
Speak  and  tell  us  where  we  are  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

Born  on  land  was  rich  and  good, 
Wells  of  water,  fields  of  food, 
Dourra  fields,  and  bloom  of  bean, 
And  the  palm-tree  cool  and  green  : 
Bornou  land  we  see  no  longer, 
Here  we  thirst  and  here  we  hunger, 
Here  the  Moor-man  smites  in  anger : 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

When  we  went  from  Bornou  land, 
We  were  like  the  leaves  and  sand, 
We  were  man}',  we  are  few ; 
Life  has  one,  and  death  has  two : 
Whitened  bones  our  path  are  showing, 
Thou  All-seeing,  thou  All-knowing  ! 
Hear  us,  tell  us,  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 


Moons  of  marches  from  our  eyes 
Bornou  land  behind  us  lies  ; 
Stranger  round  us  day  by  day 
Bends  the  desert  circle  gray  ; 
Wild  the  waves  of  sand  are  flowing, 
Hot  the  winds  above  them  blowing,  — 
Lord  of  all   things  !  —  where  are  we 

going  ? 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

We  are  weak,  but  Thou  art  strong  ; 
Short  our  lives,  but  Thine  is  long  ; 
We  are  blind,  but  Thou  hast  eyes ; 
We  are  fools,  but  Thou  art  wise  ! 

Thou,  our  morrow's  pathway  knowing 
Through  the  strange  world  round  u^ 

growing, 

Hear  us,  tell  us  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 


LINES, 

INSCRIBED  TO  FRIENDS  UNDER  ARREST 
FOR  TREASON  AGAINST  THE  SLAVE 
POWER. 

THE  age  is  dull  and  mean.  Men  creep, 
Not  walk ;  with  blood  too  pale  and 

tame 

To  pay  the  debt  they  owe  to  shame  ; 
Buy  cheap,  sell  dear ;  eat,  drink,  and 

sleep 
Down  -  pillowed,    deaf  to    moaning 

want ; 

Pay  tithes  for  soul-insurance  ;  keep 
Six  days  to  Mammon,  one  to  Cant. 

In  such  a  time,  give  thanks  to  God, 
That  somewhat  of  the  holy  rage 
With  which  the  prophets  in  their  age 

On  all  its  decent  seemings  trod, 
Has  set  your  feet  upon  the  lie, 

That  man  and  ox  and  soul  and  clod 
Are  market  stock  to  sell  and  buy  ! 

The  hot  words  from  your  lips,  my  own, 
To  caution  trained,  might  not  repeat ; 
But  if  some  tares  among  the  wheat 

Of  generous  thought  and  deed  were 
sown, 


THE  HASCHISH. 


243 


No  common  wrong  provoked  your 

zeal ; 

The  silken  gauntlet  that  is  thrown 
In  such  a  quarrel  rings  like  steel. 

The  brave  old  strife  the  fathers  saw 
For  Freedom  calls  for  men  again 
Like  those  who  battled  not  in  vain 

For  England's  Charter,  Alfred's  law  ; 
And  right  of  speech  and  trial  just 

Wage  in  your  name  their  ancient  war 
With  venal  courts  and  perjured  trust. 

Jod's  ways  seem  dark,  but,  soon  or  late, 
They  touch  the  shining  hills  of  day  ; 
The  evil  cannot  brook  delay, 
The  good  can  well  afford  to  wait. 
Give  ermined  knaves  their  hour  of 

crime ; 

iTe  have  the  future  grand  and  great, 
The  safe  appeal  of  Truth  to  Time  ! 


THE  NEW  EXODUS.6* 

BY  fire  and  cloud,  across  the  desert 

sand, 

And  through  the  parted  waves, 
From  their  long  bondage,  with  an  out 
stretched  hand, 
God  led  the  Hebrew  slaves  ! 

Dead  as  the  letter  of  the  Pentateuch, 

As  Egypt's  statues  cold, 
!n  the  adytum  of  the  sacred  book 

Now  stands  that  marvel  old. 

ic  Lo,  God  is  great !  "  the  simple  Mos 
lem  says. 

We  seek  the  ancient  date, 
Turn   the   dry  scroll,   and  make   that 

living  phrase 
A  dead  one  :  "  God  -was  great  !  " 

A.nd,  like  the  Coptic  monks  by  Mousa's 

wells, 

We  dream  of  wonders  past, 
Vague    as    the    tales    the    wandering 

Arab  tells, 
Each  drowsier  than  the  last. 


And  tranced  Egypt,  from  her  stony  lids, 
Flings  back  her  veil  of  sand. 

And   morning-smitten  Memnon,  sing 
ing,  wakes  ; 

And,  listening  by  his  Nile, 
O'er  Ammon's  grave  and  awful  visage 

breaks 
A  sweet  and  human  smile. 

Not,  as  before,  with  hail  and  fire,  and 
call 

Of  death  for  midnight  graves, 
But  in  the  stillness  of  the  noonday,  fall 

The  fetters  of  the  slaves. 

No  longer  through  "the  Red  Sea,  as  of 

old, 

The  bondmen  walk  dry  shod  ; 
Through    human    hearts,   by  love    of 

Him  controlled, 
Runs  now  that  path  of  God  1 


THE  HASCHISH. 

OF  all  that  Orient  lands  can  vaunt 
Of  marvels  with  our  own  competing, 

The  strangest  is  the  Haschish  plant, 
And  what  will  follow  on  its  eating. 

What  pictures  to  the  taster  rise, 
Of  Dervish  or  of  Almeh  dances  ! 

Of  Eblis,  or  of  Paradise, 

Set  all  aglow  with  Houri  glances  1 

The  poppy  visions  of  Cathay, 

Theheavybeer-tranceoftheSuabian; 

The  wizard  lights  and  demon  play 
Of  nights  Walpurgis  and  Arabian  ! 

The  Mollah  and  the  Christian  dog 
Change  place  in  mad  metempsycho 
sis  ; 

The  Muezzin  climbs  the  synagogue, 
The  Rabbi  shakes  his  beard  at  Mo 
ses  ! 

The  Arab  by  his  desert  well 

Sits    choosing   from   some    Caliph's 

daughters, 
And  hears  his  single  camel's  bell 

Sound  welcome  to  his  regal  quarters. 


BALLADS. 


The  Koran's  reader  makes  complaint 
Of  Shitan  dancing  on  and  off  it ; 

The  robber  offers  alms,  the  saint 
Drinks  Tokay  and  blasphemes  the 
Prophet. 

Such  scenes  that  Eastern  plant  awakes ; 

But  we  have  one  ordained  to  beat  it, 
The  Haschish  of  the  West,  which  makes 

Or  fools  or  knaves  of  all  who  eat  it. 

The  preacher  eats,  and  straight  appears 
His  Bible  in  a  new  translation  ; 

Its  angels  negro  overseers, 
And  Heaven  itself  a  snug  plantation  ! 

The  man  of  peace,  about  whose  dreams 
Tbe  sweet  millennial  angels  cluster, 


Tastes  the  mad  weed,   and  plots  and 

schemes, 
A  raving  Cuban  filibuster  ! 

The  noisiest  Democrat,  with  ease, 
It  turns  to  Slavery's  parish  beadle ;    I 

The  shrewdest  statesman  eats  and  sees 
Due  southward pointthepolar  needle. 

The  Judge  partakes,  and  sits  erelong  .-> 
Upon  his  bench  a  railing  blackguard  ;| 

Decides  off-hand  that  right  is  wrong,  I 
And  reads  the  ten  commandments  I 
backward. 

O  potent  plant !  so  rare  a  taste 

Has  never  Turk  or  Gentoo  gotten  ;  ^1 

The  hempen  Haschish  of  the  East 
Is  powerless  to  our  Western  Cotton  ! 


BALLADS. 

MARY  GARVIN. 

FROM  the  heart  of  Waumbek  Methna,  from  the  lake  that  never  fails, 
Falls  the  Saco  in  the  green  lap  of  Cqnway's  intervales  ; 
There,  in  wild  and  virgin  freshness,  its  waters  foam  and  flow, 
As  when  Darby  Field  first  saw  them,  two  hundred  years  ago. 

But,  vexed  in  all  its  seaward  course  with  bridges,  dams,  and  mills, 
How  changed  is  Saco's  stream,  how  lost  its  freedom  of  the  hills, 
Since  travelled  Jocelyn,  factor  Vines,  and  stately  Champernoon 
Heard  on  its  banks  the  gray  wolfs  howl,  the  trumpet  of  the  loon  ! 

With  smoking  axle  hot  with  speed,  with  steeds  of  fire  and  steam, 
Wide-waked  To-day  leaves  Yesterday  behind  him  like  a  dream. 
Still,  from  the  hurrying  train  of  Life,  fly  backward  far  and  fast 
The  milestones  of  the  fathers,  the  landmarks  of  the  past. 

But  human  hearts  remain  unchanged  :  the  sorrow  and  the  sin, 
The  loves  and  hopes  and  fears  of  old,  are  to  our  own  akin ; 
And  if,  in  tales  our  fathers  told,  the  songs  our  mothers  sung, 
Tradition  wears  a  snowy  beard,  Romance  is  always  young. 

O  sharp-lined  man  of  traffic,  on  Saco's  banks  to-day  ! 
O  mill-girl  watching  late  and  long  the  shuttle's  restless  play  ! 
Let,  for  the  once,  a  listening  ear  the  working  hand  beguile, 
And  lend  my  old  Provincial  tale,  as  suits,  a  tear  or  smile  ! 


The  evening  gun  had  sounded  from  gray  Fort  Mary's  walls  ; 

Through  the  forest,  like  a  wild  beast,  roared  and  plunged  the  Saco's  falls. 


MARY  GARY  IN.  24$ 

And  westward  on  the  sea-wind,  that  damp  and  gusty  grew, 
Over  cedars  darkening  inland  the  smokes  of  Spurwink  blew. 

On  the  hearth  of  Farmer  Garvin  blazed  the  crackling  walnut  log  ; 
Right  and  left  sat  dame  and  goodman,  and  between  them  lay  the  dog, 

Head  on  paws,  and  tail  slow  wagging,  and  beside  him  on  her  mat, 
Sitting  drowsy  in  the  fire-light,  winked  and  purred  the  mottled  cat. 

"  Twenty  years  !  "  said  Goodman  Garvin,  speaking  sadly,  under  breath, 
And  his  gray  head  slowly  shaking,  as  one  who  speaks  of  death. 

The  goodwife  dropped  her  needles  :  "  It  is  twenty  years,  to-day, 
Since  the  Indians  fell  on  Saco,  and  stole  our  child  away." 

Then  they  sank  into  the  silence,  for  each  knew  the  other's  thought, 
Of  a  great  and  common  sorrow,  and  words  were  needed  not. 

"  Who  knocks  ?  "  cried  Goodman  Garvin.     The  door  was  open  thrown  ; 
On  two  strangers,  man  and  maiden,  cloaked  and  furred,  the  fire-light  shone. 

One  with  courteous  gesture  lifted  the  bear-skin  from  his  head  ; 
"  Lives  here  Elkanah  Garvin  ?  "     "I  am  he,"  the  goodman  said. 

"  Sit  ye  down,  and  dry  and  warm  ye,  for  the  night  is  chill  with  rain.'* 
And  the  goodwife  drew  the  settle,  and  stirred  the  fire  amain. 

The  maid  unclasped  her  cloak-hood,  the  fire-light  glistened  fair 
In  her  large,  moist  eyes,  and  over  soft  folds  of  dark  brown  hair. 

Dame  Garvin  looked  upon  her:  "  It  is  Mary's  self  I  see  ! 

Dear  heart  !  "  she  cried,  "  now  tell  me,  has  my  child  come  back  to  me?  " 

"My  name  indeed  is  Mary,"  said  the  stranger,  sobbing  wild; 
"  Will  you  be  to  me  a  mother  ?     I  am  Mary  Garvin's  child  ! 

"  She  sleeps  by  wooded  Simcoe,  but  on  her  dying  day 
She  bade  my  father  take  me  to  her  kinsfolk  far  away. 

"  And  when  the  priest  besought  her  to  do  me  no  such  wrong, 
She  said,  '  May  God  forgive  me  !  I  have  closed  my  heart  too  long. 

"  '  When  I  hid  me  from  my  father,  and  shut  out  my  mother's  call, 
I  sinned  against  those  dear  ones,  and  the  Father  of  us  all. 

"  '  Christ's  love  rebukes  no  home-love,  breaks  no  tie  of  kin  apart ; 
Better  heresy  in  doctrine,  than  heresy  of  heart. 

"  '  Tell  me  not  the  Church  must  censure  :  she  who  wept  the  Cross  beside 
Never  made  her  own  flesh  strangers,  nor  the  claims  of  blood  denied ; 

"  '  And  if  she  who  wronged  her  parents,  with  her  child  atones  to  them, 
Earthly  daughter,  Heavenly  mother  !  thou  at  least  wilt  not  condemn  ! ' 


246  BALLADS. 

"  So,  upon  her  death-bed  lying,  my  blessed  mother  spake  ; 
As  we  come  to  do  her  bidding,  so  receive  us  for  her  sake." 

"  God  be  praised  !  "  said  Goodwife  Garvin,  "  He  taketh,  and  he  elves  • 
He  woundeth,  but  he  healeth  ;  in  her  child  our  daughter  lives  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  the  old  man  answered,  as  he  brushed  a  tear  away, 

And,  kneeling  by  his  hearthstone,  said,  with  reverence,  "Let  us  pray." 

All  its  Oriental  symbols,  and  its  Hebrew  paraphrase, 

Warm  with  earnest  life  and  feeling,  rose  his  prayer  of  love  and  praise. 

But  he  started  at  beholding,  as  he  rose  from  off  his  knee, 
The  stranger  cross  his  forehead  with  the  sign  of  Papistrie. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  cried  Farmer  Garvin.     "  Is  an  English  Christian's  home 
A  chapel  or  a  mass-house,  that  you  make  the  sign  of  Rome  ?  " 

Then  the  young  girl  knelt  beside  him,  kissed  his  trembling  hand,  and  cried  : 
"  O,  forbear  to  chide  my  father ;  in  that  faith  my  mother  died ! 

"  On  her  wooden  cross  at  Simcoe  the  dews  and  sunshine  fall, 

As  they  fall  on  Spurwink's  graveyard  ;  and  the  dear  God  watches  all  1 " 

The  old  man  stroked  the  fair  head  that  rested  on  his  knee  ; 

"  Your  words,  dear  child,"  he  answered,  "are  God's  rebuke  to  me. 

"  Creed  and  rite  perchance  may  differ,  yet  our  faith  and  hope  be  one. 
Let  me  be  your  father's  father,  let  him  be  to  me  a  son." 

When  the  horn,  on  Sabbath  morning,  through  the  still  and  frosty  air, 
From  Spurwink,  Pool,  and  Black  Point,  called  to  sermon  and  to  prayer, 

To  the  goodly  house  of  worship,  where,  in  order  due  and  fit, 
As  by  public  vote  directed,  classed  and  ranked  the  people  sit ; 

Mistress  first  and  goodwife  after,  clerkly  squire  before  the  clown, 

From  the  brave  coat,  lace  embroidered,  to  the  gray  frock,  shading  down  ; 

From  the  pulpit  read  the  preacher,  — "  Goodman  Garvin  and  his  wife 
Fain  would  thank  the  Lord,  whose  kindness  has  followed  them  through  life, 

"For  the  great  and  crowning  mercv,  that  their  daughter,  from  the  wild, 
Where  she  rests  (they  hope  in  God's  peace),  has  sent  to  them  her  child  ; 

"And  the  prayers  of  all  God's  people  they  ask,  that  they  may  prove 
Not  unworthy,  through  their  weakness,  of  such  special  proof  of  love." 

As  the  preacher  prayed,  uprising,  the  aged  couple  stood, 
And  the  fair  Canadian  also,  in  her  modest  maidenhood. 

Thought  the  elders,  grave  and  doubting,  "  She  is  Papist  born  and  bred  "  ; 
1  nought  the  young  men,  "  'T  is  an  angel  in  Mary  Garvin's  stead  !  " 


MAUD  MULLER. 


247 


MAUD  MULLER. 

MAUD  MULLER,  on  a  sumrner's  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry 

glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But  when   she  glanced  to  the  far-off 

town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  un 
rest 

And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her 
breast,  — 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than    she   had 
known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that 

flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bub 
bled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking 

down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered 

gown. 

"  Thanks !  "  said  the  Judge  ;  "  a  sweeter 

draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and 

trees. 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming 

bees; 


Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  won 
dered  whether 

The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul 
weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  anklesbare  and  brown; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  herlong-lashedhazeleyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed  :  "Ah 

me  ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be  ! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth 

coat ; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"I  'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy 
each  day. 

"  And  I  'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe 

the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our 

door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed 

the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

"A  forni;more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"  And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful 

ait 
Show  her  \vise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay  : 

"  No   doubtful  balance   of  rights   and 

wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
Andhealth  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 


24S 


BALLADS. 


But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud  and 

cold, 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and 

gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love- 
tune; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the 

well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright 

glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go  ; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished 
rooms, 

To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover- 
blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  se 
cret  pain, 
"  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again  ! 

"  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 
Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her 
hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her 
door. 

But  care   and  sorrow,   and  childbirth 

pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone 

hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow 

lot, 


And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney 

lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and 

mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden   of  life 

again, 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge  ! 

God  pity  them  both  !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 
The  saddest  are  these  :  "  It  might  have 
been  !  " 

Ah,  well  !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope 

lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes  ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away  ! 


THE  RANGER. 

ROBERT  R  AWL  IN  !  —  Frosts  were  fall 
ing 
When  the  ranger's  horn  was  calling 

Through  the  woods  to  Canada. 
Gone  the  winter's  sleet  and  snowing, 
Gone  the  spring-time's  bud  and  blowing, 


THE  RANGER. 


249 


Gone  the  summer's  harvest  mowing, 
And  again  the  fields  are  gray. 
Yet  away,  he  's  away  ! 

Faint  and  fainter  hope  is  growing 
In  the  hearts  that  mourn  his  stay. 

Where  the  lion,  crouching  high  on 
Abraham's  rock  with  teeth  of  iron, 

Glares  o'er  wood  and  wave  away, 
Faintly  thence,  as  pines  far  sighing, 
Or  as  thunder  spent  and  dying, 
Come  the  challenge  and  replying, 

Come  the  sounds  of  flight  and  fray. 

Well-a-day  !     Hope  and  pray  ! 
Some  are  living,  some  are  lying 

In  their  red  graves  far  away. 

Straggling  rangers,  worn  with  dangers, 
Homeward  faring,  weary  strangers 

Pass  the  farm-gate  on  their  way  ; 
Tidings  of  the  dead  and  living, 
Forest  march  and  ambush,  giving, 
Till  the  maidens  leave  their  weaving, 

And  the  lads  forget  their  play. 

"  Still  away,  still  away  !  " 
Sighs  a  sad  one,  sick  with  grieving, 

"  Why  does  Robert  still  delay  !  " 

Nowhere  fairer,  sweeter,  rarer, 
Does  the  golden-locked  fruit-bearer 

Through  his  painted  woodlands  stray, 
Than  where  hillside  oaks  and  beeches 
Overlook  the  long,  blue  reaches, 
Silver  coves  and  pebbled  beaches, 

And  green  isles  of  Casco  Bay ; 

Nowhere  day,  for  delay, 
With  a  tenderer  look  beseeches, 

"  Let    me  with  my  charmed  earth 
stay." 

On  the  grain-lands  of  the  mainlands 
Stands  the  serried  corn  like  train-bands, 

Plume  and  pennon  rustling  gay  ; 
Out  at  sea,  the  islands  wooded, 
Silver  birches,  golden-hooded, 
Set  with  maples,  crimson-blooded, 

White  sea- foam  and  sand-hills  gray, 

Stretch  away,  far  away. 
Dim  and  dreamy,  over-brooded 

By  the  hazy  autumn  day. 

Gayly  chattering  to  the  clattering 
Of  the  brown  nuts  downward  pattering, 
Leap  the  squirrels,  red  and  gray. 


On  the  grass-land,  on  the  fallow, 
Drop  the  apples,  red  and  yellow  ; 
Drop  the  russet  pears  and  mellow, 

Drop  the  red  leaves  all  the  day. 

And  away,  swift  away, 
Sun  and  cloud,  o'er  hill  and  hollow 

Chasing,  weave  their  web  of  play. 

"  Martha  Mason,  Martha  Mason, 
Prithee  tell  us  of  the  reason 

Why  you  mope  at  home  to-day: 
Surely  smiling  is  not  sinning  ; 
Leave  your  quilling,  leave  your  spin 
ning  ; 
What  is  all  your  store  of  linen, 

If  your  heart  is  never  gay  ? 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
Never  yet  did  sad  beginning 

Make  the  task  of  life  a  play." 

Overbending,  till  she  's  blending 
With  the  flaxen  skein  she's  tending 

Pale  brown  tresses  smoothed  away 
From  her  face  of  patient  sorrow, 
Sits  she,  seeking  but  to  borrow, 
From  the  trembling  hope  of  morrow, 

Solace  for  the  weary  day. 

"  Go  your  way,  laugh  and  play  ; 
Unto  Him  who  heeds  the  sparrow 

And  the  lily,  let  me  pray." 

"  With  our  rally,  rings  the  valley,  — 
Join  us  !  "  cried  the  blue-eyed  Nelly  f 

"Join  us  !  "  cried  the  laughing  Ma>v 
"  To  the  beach  we  all  are  going, 
And,  to  save  the  task  of  rowing, 
West  by  north  the  wind  is  blowing, 

Blowing  briskly  down  the  bay  ! 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
Time  and  tide  are  swiftly  flowing, 

Let  us  take  them  while  we  may  ! 

"  Never  tell  us  that  you  '11  fail  us, 
Where  the  purple  Beach-plum  mello^ 

On  the  bluffs  so  wild  and  gray. 
Hasten,  for  the  oars  are  falling  _; 
Hark,  our  merry  mates  are  calling: 
Time  it  is  that  we  were  all  in, 

Singing  tideward  down  the  b«y  !  " 

"  Nay,  nay,  let  me  stay  ; 
Sore  and  sad  for  Robert  Rawlin 

Is  my  heart,"  she  said,  "  to-day." 


BALLADS. 


"  Vain  your  calling  for  Rob  Rawlin  ! 
Some  red  squaw  his  moose-meat  'sbroil- 


Or  some  French  lass,  singing  gay  ; 
ust  forget  as  he  's  forgetting  ; 
hat  avails  a  life  of  fretting  ? 


J 

If  some  stars  must  needs  be  setting, 
Others  rise  as  good  as  they." 
"  Cease,  I  pray  ;  go  your  way  !  " 

Martha  cries,  her  eyelids  wetting  ; 
"  Foul  and  false  the  words  you  say  !  " 

"Martha  Mason,  hear  to  reason  ! 
Prithee,  put  a  kinder  face  on  !  " 

"  Cease  to  vex  me,"  did  she  say; 
"  Better  at  his  side  be  lying, 
With  the  mournful  pine-trees  sighing, 
And  the  wild  birds  o'er  us  crying, 

Than  to  doubt  like  mine  a  prey  ; 

While  away,  far  away, 
Turns  my  heart,  forever  trying 

Some  new  hope  for  each  new  day. 

"  When  the  shadows  veil  the  meadows, 
And  the  sunset's  golden  ladders 

Sink  from  twilight's  walls  of  gray,  — 
From  the  window  of  my  dreaming, 
I  can  see  his  sickle  gleaming, 
Cheery-voiced,  can  hear  him  teaming 

Down  the  locust-shaded  way  ; 

But  away,  swift  away, 
Fades  the  fond,  delusive  seeming, 

And  I  kneel  again  to  pray. 


"When  the  growing  dawn  is  showing, 
And  the  barn-yard  cock  is  crowing, 

And  the  horned  moon  pales  away : 
From  a  dream  of  him  awaking, 
Every  sound  my  heart  is  making 
Seems  a  footstep  of  his  taking  ; 

Then  I  hush  the  thought,  and  say, 

'  Nay,  nay,  he  's  away  ! ' 
Ah  !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  breaking 

For  the  dear  one  far  away." 

Look  up,  Martha  !  worn  and  swarthy, 
Glows  a  face  of  manhood  worthy  : 

"  Robert!  "  "  Martha  !"  all  they  say. 
O'er  went  wheel  and  reel  together, 
Little  cared  the  owner  whither  ; 
Heart  of  lead  is  heart  of  feather, 

Noon  of  night  is  noon  of  day  1 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
When  such  lovers  meet  each  other, 

Why  should  prying  idlers  stay  ? 

Quench  the  timber's  fallen  embers, 
Quench  the  red  leaves  in  December's 

Hoary  rime  and  chilly  spray. 
But  the  hearth  shall  kindle  clearer, 
Household  welcomes  sound  sincerer, 
Heart  to  loving  heart  draw  nearer, 

When  the  bridal  bells  shall  say  : 

"  Hope  and  pray,  trust  alway  ; 
Life  is  sweeter,  love  is  dearer, 

For  the  trial  and  delay  !  " 


LATER    POEMS. 

1856-57- 


LATER    POEMS. 


THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 


O'ER  the   bare  woods,   whose   out 
stretched  hands 
Plead  with  the  leaden  heavens  in 

vain, 
I  see,  beyond  the  valley  lands, 

The  sea's  long  level  dim  with  rain. 
Aroundmeall  things,  stark  and  dumb, 
Seem  praying  for  the  snows  to  come, 
And,  for  the  summer  bloom  and  green 
ness  gone, 

With  winter's  sunset  lights  and  dazzling 
morn  atone. 


Along  the  river's  summer  walk, 

The  withered  tufts  of  asters  nod  ; 
And  trembles  on  its  arid  stalk 

The  hoar  plume  of  the  golden-rod. 
And  on  a  ground  of  sombre  fir, 
And  azure-studded  juniper, 
The  silver  birch  its  buds  of  purple  shows, 
And  scarlet  berries  tell  where  bloomed 
the  sweet  wild-rose  1 


With  mingled  sound  of  horns  and 

bells, 

A  far-heard  clang,  the  wild  geese  fly, 
Storm-sent,  from  Arctic  moors  and 

fells, 

Like  a  great  arrow  through  the  sky, 
Two  dusky  lines  converged  in  one, 
Chasing  the  southward-flying  sun  ; 
While  the  brave  snow-bird  and  the  har 
dy  jay 

Call  to  them  from  the  pines,  as  if  to  bid 
them  stay. 


I  passed  this  way  a  year  ago  : 
The  wind  blew  south  ;  the  noon  of 

day 
Was  warm  as  June's  ;  and  save  that 

snow 

Flecked  the  low  mountains  far  away, 

And  that  the  vernal-seeming  breeze 

Mocked  fadedgrass  and  leafless  trees, 

I  might  have  dreamed  of  summer  as  I 

lay, 

Watching  the  fallen  leaves  with  the  soft 
wind  at  play. 


Since  then,  the  winterblastshave  piled 

The  white  pagodas  of  the  snow 
On  these  rough  slopes,  and,  strong 

and  wild, 

Yon  river,  in  its  overflow 
Of  spring-time  rain  and  sun,  set  free, 
Crashed  with  its  ices  to  the  sea  ; 
And  over  these  gray  fields,  then  green 

and  gold, 

The  summer  corn  has  waved,  the  thun 
der's  organ  rolled. 

VI. 

Rich  gift  of  God  !  A  year  of  time  ! 

What  pomp  of  rise  and  shut  of  day, 
What  hues  wherewith  our  Northern 

clime 
Makes  autumn's  dropping  wood 

lands  gay, 

What  airs  outblown  from  ferny  dells, 
And  clover-bloom    and    sweet-brier 

smells, 
What  songs  of  brooks  and  birds,  what 

fruits  and  flowers, 

Green  woods  and  moonlit  snows,  have 
in  its  round  been  ours  I 


LATER   POEMS. 


I  know  not  how,  in  other  lands, 
The   changing  seasons  come  and 

go; 

What  splendors  fall  on  Syrian  sands, 
What  purple  lights  on  Alpine  snow  ! 
Nor  how  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 
On  Venice  at  her  watery  gates  ; 
A  dream  alone  to  me  is  Arno's  vale, 
And  the  Alhambra's  halls  are  but  a 
traveller's  tale. 


Yet,  on  life's  current,  he  who  drifts 

Is  one  with  him  who  rows  or  sails ; 
And  he  who  wanders  widest  lifts 

No  more  of  beauty's  jealous  veils 
Than  he  who  from  his  doorway  sees 
The  miracle  of  flowers  and  trees, 
Feels  the  warm  Orient  in  the  noonday 

air, 

And  from  cloud    minarets    hears  the 
sunset  call  to  prayer  ! 


The  eye  may  well  be  glad,  that  looks 
Where    Pharpar's    fountains    rise 

and  fall  ; 

But  he  who  sees  his  native  brooks 
Laugh  in  the  sun,  has  seen  them 

all? 

The  marble  palaces  of  Ind 
Rise  round  him  in    the   snow   and 

wind  ; 

From  his  lone  sweetbrier  Persian  Ha 
rk  smiles, 

And  Rome's  cathedral  awe  is  in  his 
woodland  aisles. 


And  thus  it  is  my  fancy  blends 

The  near  at  hand  and  far  and  rare  ; 
And  while  the  same  horizon  bends 
Above  the  silver-sprinkled  hair 
Which  flashed  the  light  of  morning 

skies 

On  childhood's  wonder-lifted  eyes, 
Within  its  round  of  sea  and   sky   and 

field, 

Earth  wheels  with  all  her  zones,  the 
Kosmos  stands  revealed. 


And  thus  the  sick  man  on  his  bed, 

The  toiler  to  his  task-work  bound, 
Behold  their  prison-walls  outspread, 
Their  clipped  horizon  widen  round  I 
While  freedom-giving  fancy  waits, 
Like  Peter's  angel  at  the  gates, 
The  power  is  theirs  to  baffle  care  and 

pain, 

To  bring  the  lost  world  back,  and  make 
it  theirs  again ! 


What  lack  of  goodly  company, 

When  masters  of  the  ancient  lyre 
Obey  my  call,  and  trace  for  me 
Their  words  of  mingled  tears  and 

fire  ! 

I  talk  with  Bacon,  grave  and  wise, 

I  read  the  world  with  Pascal's  eyes ; 

And  priest  and  sage,  with  solemn  brows 

austere, 

And  poets,  garland-bound,  the  Lords 
of  Thought,  draw  near. 


Methinks,  O  friend,  I  hear  thee  say, 
"  In    vain    the   human    heart  we 

mock ; 

Bring  living  guests  who  love  the  day, 

Not  ghosts  who  fly  at  crow  of  cock  ! 

The  herbs  we  share  with  flesh  and 

blood, 

Are  better  than  ambrosial  food, 
With    laurelled   shades."     I  grant  it, 

nothing  loath, 

But  doubly  blest  is  he  who  can  par 
take  of  both. 


He  who  might  Plato's  banquet  grace, 

Have  I  not  seen  before  me  sit, 
And  watched  his  puritanic  face, 
With  more  than  Eastern  wisdom 

lit? 

Shrewd  mystic  !  who,  upon  the  back 
Of  his  Poor  Richard's  Almanack, 
Writing  the  Sufi's  song,  the  Gentoo's 

dream, 

Links  Menu's  age  of  thought  to  Ful 
ton's  age  of  steam ! 


THE  LAST   WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 


Here  too,  of  answering  love  secure, 

Have  I  not  welcomed  to  my  hearth 
The  gentle  pilgrim  troubadour, 
Whose  songs  have  girdled  half  the 

earth  ; 

Whose  pages,  like  the  magic  mat 
Whereon  the  Eastern  lover  sat, 
Have  borne  me  over  Rhine-land's  pur 
ple  vines, 

And  Nubia's  tawny  sands,  and  Phry- 
gia's  mountain  pines  I 


And  he,  who  to  the  lettered  wealth 

Of  ages  adds  the  lore  unpriced, 
The  wisdom  and  the  moral  health, 

The  ethics  of  the  school  of  Christ ; 
The  statesman  to  his  holy  trust, 
As  the  Athenian  archon,  just, 
Si  ruck  down,  exiled  like  him  for  truth 

alone, 

H  Us    he  not    graced  my    home  with 
beauty  all  his  own  ? 


What  greetings  smile,  what  farewells 

wave, 

What  loved  ones  enter  and  depart  ! 
The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 
The  Heaven-lent  treasures  of  the 

heart !  ^ 

How  conscious  seems  the  frozen  sod 
And    beechen    slope   whereon   they 

trod  ! 
The    oak-leaves  rustle,    and    the    dry 

grass  bends 

Beneath   the  shadowy  feet  of  lost  or 
absent  friends. 


Then  ask  not  why  to  these  bleak  hills 

I  cling,  as  clings  the  tufted  moss, 
To  bear  the  winter's  lingering  chills, 
The    mocking  spring's    perpetual 

loss. 
I   dream    of  lands    where    summer 

smiles, 

And  soft  winds  blow  from  spicy  isles, 
But  scarce   would  Ceylon's  breath  of 

flowers  be  sweet, 

Could  I  not  feel  thy  soil,  New  Eng 
land,  at  my  feet ! 


At  times  T  long  for  gentler  skies, 

And  bathe  in  dreams  of  softer  air, 
But   homesick  tears  would  fill  the 

eyes 
That   saw  the   Cross  without  the 

Bear. 

The  pine  must  whisper  to  the  palm, 
The    north-wind    break    the    tropic 

calm  ; 
And  with  the  dreamy  languor  of  the 

Line, 

The  North's  keen  virtue  blend,  and 
strength  to  beauty  join. 


Better  to  stem  with  heart  and  hand 
The  roaring  tide  of  life,  than  lie, 
Unmindful,  on  its  flowery  strand, 
I  Of  God's  occasions  drifting  by  !  \ 
Fetter  with  naked  nerve  to  bear 
The  needles  of  this  goading  air, 
Than,  in  the  lap  of  sensual  ease,  forego 
The  godlike  power  to  do,  the  godlike 
aim  to  know. 


Home  of  my  heart  !   to  me  more  fair 
Than  gay  Versailles  or  Windsor's 

halls, 
The    painted,    shingly    town -house 

where 
The   freeman's  vote  for  Freedom 

falls  ! 

The  simple  roof  where  prayer  is  made, 
Than  Gothic  groin  and  colonnade  ; 
The  living  temple  of  the  heart  of  man, 
Than  Rome's  sky-mocking  vault,   or 
many-spired  Milan  ! 

XXII. 

More  dear  thy  equal  village  schools, 

Where  rich  and  poor  the  Bible  read, 

Than  classic  halls  where  Priestcraft 

rules, 
And  Learning  wears  the  chains  of 

Creed  ; 

Thy  glad  Thanksgiving,  gathering  in 
The  scattered  sheaves  of  home  and 

kin, 
Than  the  mad  license  following  Lenten 

{Dains, 
idays  of  slaves  who  laugh  and 
dance  in  chains. 


LA  TER  POEMS. 


XXIII. 

And  sweet  homes  nestle    in    these 

dales, 
And    perch    along    these  wooded 

swells  ; 

And,  blest  beyond  Arcadian  vales, 
They  hear  the   sound  of  Sabbath 

bells ! 

Here  dwells  no  perfect  man  sublime, 

Nor  woman  winged  before  her  time, 

But  with  the  faults  and  lollies  of  the 

race, 

Old  home-bred  virtues  held  their  not 
unhonored  place. 


Here  manhood  struggles  for  the  sake 

Of  mother,  sister,  daughter,  wife, 
The  graces  and  the  loves  which  make 

The  music  of  the  march  of  life  ; 
And  woman,  in  her  daily  round 
Of  duty,  walks  on  holy  ground. 
No  unpaid  menial  tills  the  soil,  nor  here 
Is   the  bad  lesson  learned   at  human 
rights  to  sneer. 


cold, 

As  gayly  as  I  did  of  old  ; 
And  I,  who  watch  them  through  the 

frosty  pane, 
Unenvious,  live  in  them  my  boyhood 

o'er  again. 


And  I  will  trust  that  He  who  heeds 
The  life  that   hides  in  mead  and 

wold, 

Who  hangs  yon  alder's  crimson  beads, 
And  stains  these  mosses  green  and 

gold, 

Will  still,  as  He  hath  done,  incline 

His  gracious  care  to  me  and  mine  ; 

Grant  what  we  ask  aright,  from  wrong 

debar, 

And,  as  the  earth  grows   dark,  make 
brighter  every  star  ! 


I  have  not  seen,  I  may  not  see, 

My  hopes  for  man  take  form  in  fact, 
But  God  will  give  the  victory 

In  due  time  ;  in  that  faith  I  act. 
And  he  who  sees  the  future  sure, 
The  baffling  present  may  endure, 
And  bless,  meanwhile,  the  unseen  Hand 

that  leads 

The  heart's  desires  beyond  the  halting 
step  of  deeds. 


And  thou,  my  song,  I  send  thee  forth, 
Where  harsher  songs  of  mine  have 

flown  ; 

Go,  find  a  place  at  home  and  hearth 
Where'er    thy    singer's    name    is 

known  ; 

Revive  for  him  the  kindly  thought 
Of  friends  ;  and  they  who  love  him 

not, 

Touched  by  some  strain  of  thine,  per 
chance  may  take 

The  hand  he  proffers  all,   and  thank 
him  for  thy  sake. 


THE   MAYFLOWERS. 

The  trailing  arbutus,  or  mavflower,  prows 
ahiiiulantlv  1"  the  vicinity  'of  Plymouth, 
juxl  was  flic  first  flower  flint  greeted  the 
Pilgrims  after  their  fearful  winter. 

SAD    Mayflower!  watched    by   winter 
stars, 

And  nursed  by  winter  gales, 
With  petals  of  the  sleeted  spars, 

And  leaves  of  frozen  sails  ! 

What  had  she  in  those  dreary  hours, 
Within  her  ice-rimmed  bay, 

In  common  with  the  wild-wood  flowers, 
The  first  sweet  smiles  of  May? 

Yet,  "  God  be  praised  !  "  the  Pilgrim 
said, 

Who  saw  the  blossoms  peer 
Above  the  brown  leaves,  dry  and  dead, 

"  Behold  our  Mayflower  here  !  " 


BURIAL   OF  B ARBOUR. 


257 


"  God  wills  it :  here  our  rest  shall  be, 
Our  years  of  wandering  o'er, 

For  us  the  Mayflower  of  the  sea, 
Shall  spread  her  sails  no  more." 

O  sacred  flowers  of  faith  and  hope, 

As  sweetly  now  as  then 
Ye  bloom  on  many  a  birchen  slope, 

In  many  a  pine-dark  glen. 

Behind  the  sea-wall's  rugged  length, 
Unchanged,  your  leaves  unfold, 

Like  love  behind  the  manly  strength 
Of  the  brave  hearts  of  old. 

P-o  live  the  fathers  in  their  sors, 

Their  sturdy  faith  be  ours, 
And  ours  the  love  that  overruns 

Its  rocky  strength  with  flowers. 

T  he  Pilgrim's  wild  and  wintry  day 
Its  shadow  round  us  draws  ; 

The  Mayflower  of  his  stormy  bay, 
Our  Freedom's  struggling  cause. 

l(ut  warmer  suns  erelong  shall  bring 

To  life  the  frozen  sod  ; 
/i  nd,  through  dead  leaves  of  hope,  shall 
spring 

Afresh  the  flowers  of  God  ! 


BURIAL  OF   BARBOUR. 

BEAR  him,  comrades,  to  his  grave  ; 
Never  over  one  more  brave 

Shall  the  prairie  grasses  weep, 
In  the  ages  yet  to  come, 
When  the  millions  in  our  room, 

What  we  sow  in  tears,  shall  reap. 

Bear  him  up  the  icy  hill, 
With  the  Kansas,  frozen  still 

Asjiis  noble  heart,  below, 
And  the  land  he  came  to  till 
With  a  freeman's  thews  and  will, 

And  his  poor  hut  roofed  with  snow  I 

One  more  look  of  that  dead  face, 
Of  his  murder's  ghastly  trace  ! 

One  more  kiss,  O  widowed  one  I 
Lay  your  left  hands  on  his  brow, 
'7 


Lift  your  right  hands  up,  and  vow 
That  his  work  shall  yet  be  done. 

Patience,  friends  !     The  eye  of  God 
Every  path  by  Murder  trod 

Watches,  lidless,  day  and  night; 
And  the  dead  man  in  his  shroud, 
And  his  widow  weeping  loud, 

And  our  hearts,  are  in  his  sight. 

Every  deadly  threat  that  swells 
With  the  roar  of  gambling  hells, 

Every  brutal  jest  and  jeer, 
Every  wicked  thought  and  plan 
Of  the  cruel  heart  of  man, ' 

Though  but  whispered,  He  can  hear  1 

We  in  suffering,  they  in  crime, 
Wait  the  just  award  of  time, 

Wait  the  vengeance  that  is  due ; 
Not  in  vain  a  heart  shall  break, 
Not  a  tear  for  Freedom's  sake 

Fall  unheeded  :  God  is  true. 

While  the  flag  with  stars  bedecked 
Threatens  where  it  should  protect, 

And  the    Law  shakes    hands    with 

Crime, 

iVhat  is  left  us  but  to  wait, 
Match  our  patience  to  our  fate, 

And  abide  the  better  time  ? 

Patience,  friends  !     The  human  heart 
Everywhere  shall  take  our  part, 

Everywhere  for  us  shall  pray ; 
On  our  side  are  nature's  laws, 
And  God's  life  is  in  the  cause 

That  we  suffer  for  to-day. 

Well  to  suffer  is  divine ; 

Pass  the  watchword  clown  the  line, 

Pass  the  countersign  :  "  ENDURE/ 
Not  to  him  who  rashly  dares, 
But  to  him  who  nobly  bears, 

Is  the  victor's  garland  sure. 

Frozen  earth  to  frozen  breast, 
Lay  our  slain  one  down  to  rest  ; 

Lay  him  down  in  hope  and  faith, 
And  above  the  broken  sod, 
Once  again,  to  Freedom's  God, 

Pledge  ourselves  for  life  or  deatfr 


LATER   POEMS. 


That  the  State  whose  walls  we  lay, 
In  our  blood  and  tears,  to-day, 

Shall  be  free  from  bonds  of  shame, 
And  our  goodly  land  untrod 
By  the  feet  of  Slavery,  shod 

With  cursing  as  with  flame  ! 

Plant  the  Buckeye  on  his  grave, 
For  the  hunter  o'f  the  slave 

In  its  shadow  cannot  rest ; 
And  let  martyr  mound  and  tree 
Be  our  pledge  and  guaranty 

Of  the  freedom  of  the  West ! 


TO   PENNSYLVANIA. 

O  STATE  prayer-founded  !  never  hung 
Such  choice  upon  a  people's  tongue, 

Such  power  to  bless  or  ban, 
As  that  which  makes  thy  whisper  Fate, 
For  which  on  thee  the  centuries  wait, 

And  destinies  of  man  ! 

Across  thy  Alleghanian  chain, 
With  groanings  from  a  land  in  pain, 

The  west-wind  finds  its  way  : 
Wild-wailing  from  Missouri's  flood    ^ 
The  crying  of  thy  children's  blood 

Is  in  thy  ears  to-day  ! 

And  unto  thee  in  Freedom's  hour 
Of  sorest  need  God  gives  the  power 

To  ruin  or  to  save  ; 
To  wound  or  heal,  to  blight  or  bless 
With  fertile  field  or  wilderness, 

A  free  home  or  a  grave  ! 

Then  let  thy  virtue  match  the  crime, 
Rise  to  a  level  with  the  time  ; 

And,  if  a  son  of  thine 
Betray  or  tempt  thee,  Brutus-like 
For  Fatherland  and  Freedom  strike 

As  Justice  gives  the  sign. 

Wake,  sleeper,  from  thy  dream  of  ease, 
The  great  occasion's  forelock  seize  ; 

And,  let  the  north-wind  strong, 
And  golden  leaves  of  autumn,  be 
Thy  coronal  of  Victory 

And  thy  triumphal  song. 

iQth  mo.,  1856. 


THE   PASS    OF    THE    SIERRA. 

ALL  night  above  their  rocky  bed 
They  saw  the  stars  march  slow  ; 

The  wild  Sierra  overhead, 
The  desert's  death  below. 

The  Indian  from  his  lodge  of  bark, 
The  gray  bear  from  his  den, 

Beyond  their  camp-fire's  wall  of  dark. 
Glared  on  the  mountain  men. 

Still  upward  turned,  with  anxious  strain 
Their  leader's  sleepless  eye, 

Where  splinters  of  the  mountain  chain 
Stood  black  against  the  sky. 

The  night  waned  slow  :  at  last,  a  glow, 

A  gleam  of  sudden  fire, 
Shot  up  behind  the  walls  of  snow, 

And  tipped  each  icy  spire. 

"Up,   men!"   he   cried,   "yon   rocky 
cone, 

To-day,  please  God,  we  '11  pass, 
And  look  from  Winter's  frozen  throne 

On  Summer's  flowers  and  grass  !  " 

They  set  their  faces  to  the  blast, 
They  trod  the  eternal  snow, 

And  faint,  worn,  bleeding,  hailed  at  last 
The  promised  land  below. 

Behind,  they  saw  the  snow-cloud  tossed 

By  many  an  icy  horn  ; 
Before,  warm  valleys,  wood-embossed, 

And  green  with  vines  and  corn. 

They  left  the  Winter  at  their  backs 

To  flap  his  baffled  wing, 
And  downward,  with  the  cataracts, 

Leaped  to  the  lap  of  Spring. 

Strong  leader  of  that  mountain  band, 

Another  task  remains, 
To  break  from  Slavery's  desert  land 

A  path  to  Freedom's  plains. 

The  winds  are  wild,  the  way  is  drear, 
Yet,  flashing  through  the  night, 

Lo  !  icy  rid^e  and  rocky  spear 
Blaze  out  in  morning  light ! 


A   LAY  OF  OLD    TIME. 


259 


Rise  up,  FREMONT  !  and  go  before  ; 

The  Hour  must  have  its  Man  ; 
Put  on  the  hunting-shirt  once  more, 

And  lead  in  Freedom's  van  ! 

Wi  mo.,  1856. 


THE    CONQUEST  OF    FIN- 
LAND.65 

ACROSS  the  frozen  marshes 
The  winds  of  autumn  blow, 

And  the  fen-lands  of  the  Wetter 
Are  white  with  early  snow. 

But  where  the  low,  gray  headlands 

Look  o'er  the  Baltic  brine, 
A  bark  is  sailing  in  the  track 

Of  England's  battle-line. 

No  wares  hath  she  to  barter 
For  Bothnia's  fish  and  grain  ; 

She  saileth  not  for  pleasure, 
She  saileth  not  for  gain. 

But  still  by  isle  or  main-land 
She  drops  her  anchor  down, 

Where'er  the  British  cannon 
Rained  fire  on  tower  and  town. 

Outspake  the  ancient  Amtman, 
At  the  gate  of  Helsingfors  : 

"  Why  comes  this  ship  a-spying 
In  the  track  of  England's  wars?  " 

1 '  Godbless  her, "  said  the  coast-guard, — 
"  God  bless  the  ship,  I  say. 

The  holy  angels  trim  the  sails 
That  speed  her  on  her  way  ! 

"  Where'er  she  drops  her  anchor, 
The  peasant's  heart  is  glad  ; 

Where'er  she  spreads  her  parting  sail, 
The  peasant's  heart  is  sad. 

"  Each  wasted  town  and  hamlet 

She  visits  to  restore  ; 
To  roof  the  shattered  cabin, 

And  feed  the  starving  poor. 

"  The  sunken  boats  of  fishers, 
The  foraged  beeves  and  grain, 

The  spoil  of  flake  and  storehouse, 
The  good  ship  brings  again. 


"  And  so  to  Finland's  sorrow 

The  sweet  amend  is  made, 
As  if  the  healing  hand  of  Christ 

Upon  her  wounds  were  laid  !  " 

Then  said  the  gray  old  Amtman, 
"The  will  f.t"  God  be  done  ! 

The  battle  lost  by  England's  hate, 
By  England's  love  is  won  ! 

"  We  braved  the  iron  tempest 
That  thundered  on  our  shore  : 

But  when  did  kindness  fail  to  find 
The  key  to  Finland's  door? 

"  No  more  from  Aland's  ramparts 
Shall  warning  signal  come, 

Nor  startled  Sweaborg  hear  again 
The  roll  of  midnight  drum. 

"  Beside  our  fierce  Black  Eagle 
The  Dove  of  Peace  shall  rest ; 

And  in  the  mouths  of  cannon 
The  sea-bird  make  her  nest. 

"  For  Finland,  looking  seaward, 

No  coming  foe  shall  scan  ; 
And  the  holy  bells  of  Abo 

Shall  ring,  '  Good-will  to  man  ! ' 

"  Then  row  thy  boat,  O  fisher  ! 

In  peace  on  lake  and  bay  ; 
And  thou,  young  maiden,  dance  again 

Around  the  poles  of  May  ! 

"  Sit  down,  old  men,  together, 

Old  wives,  in  quiet  spin  ; 
Henceforth  the  Anglo-Saxon 

Is  the  brother  of  the  Finn  !  " 


A  LAY  OF  OLD  TIME. 

WRITTEN      FOR     THE     ESSEX     COUNTY 
AGRICULTURAL  FAIR. 

ONE  morning  of  the  first  sad  Fall, 

Poor  Adam  and  his  bride 
Sat  in  the  shade  of  Eden's  wall  — 

But  on  the  outer  side. 

She,  blushing  in  her  fig-leaf  suit 
For  the  chaste  garb  of  old  ; 


LATER  POEMS. 


He,  sighing  o'er  his  bitter  fruit 
For  Eden's  drupes  of  gold. 

Behind  them,  smiling  in  the  morn, 

Their  forfeit  garden  lay, 
Before  them,  wild  with  rock  and  thorn, 

The  desert  stretched  away. 

They  heard  the  air  above  them  fanned, 

A  light  step  on  the  sward, 
And  lo  !  they  saw  before  them  stand 

The  angel  of  the  Lord  ! 

"Arise,"  he  said,  "why  look  behind, 

When  hope  is  all  before, 
And  patient  hand  and  willing  mind, 

Your  loss  may  yet  restore  ? 

"  I  leave  with  you  a  spell  whose  power 

Can  make  the  desert  glad, 
And  call  around  you  fruit  and  flower 

As  fair  as  Eden  had. 

"  I  clothe  your  hands  with  power  to  lift 
The  curse  from  off  your  soil  ; 

Your  very  doom  shall  seem  a  gift, 
Your  loss  a  gain  through  Toil. 

"  Go,  cheerful  as  yon  humming-bees, 

To  labor  as  to  play." 
White  glimmering  over  Eden's  trees 

The  angel  passed  away. 

The  pilgrims  of  the  world  went  forth 

Obedient  to  the  word, 
And  found  where'er  they  tilled  the  earth 

A  garden  of  the  Lord  ! 

The  thorn-tree  cast  its  evil  fruit 
And  blushed  with  plum  and  pear 

And  seeded  grass  and  trodden  root 
Grew  sweet  beneath  their  care. 

We  share  our  primal  parents'  fate, 

And  in  our  turn  and  day, 
Look  back  on  Eden's  sworded  gate 

As  sad  and  lost  as  they. 

But  still  for  us  his  native  skies 

The  pitying  Angel  leaves, 
And  leads  through  Toil  to  Paradise 

New  Adams  and  new  Eves  ! 


WHAT  OF  THE  DAY? 

A  SOUND  of  tumult  troubles  all  the  air, 
Like  the  low  thunders  of  a  sultry 

sky 
Far-rolling  ere  the  downright  lightnings 

glare  ; 
The  hills  blaze  red  with  warnings  ; 

foes  draw  nigh, 
Treading  the  dark  with  challenge  and 

reply. 
Behold   the  burden   of  the  prophet's 

vision,  — 
The   gathering  hosts,  —  the  Valley  of 

Decision, 

Dusk  with  the  wings  of  eagles  wheel 
ing  o'er. 
Day  of  the  Lord,  of  darkness  and  not 

light  ! 

It  breaks  in  thunder  and  the  whirl 
wind's  roar  ! 
Even   so,    Father !      Let  thy  will  be 

done,  — 
Turn  and  o'erturn,  end  what  thou  hast 

begun 

In  judgment  or  in  mercy  :  as  for  me, 
If  but  the  least  and  frailest,  let  me  be 
Evermore  numbered  with  the  truly  free 
Who  find  thy  service  perfect  liberty  ! 
I  fain  would  thank  Thee  that  my  mor 
tal  life 
Has  reached  the  hour  (albeit  through 

care  and  pain) 

When  Good  and  Evil,  as  for  final  strife, 
Close  dim  and  vast  on  Armageddon's 

plain  ; 

And  Michael  and  his  angels  once  again 
Drive  howling  back  the  Spirits  of  the 

Night. 

O  for  the  faith  to  read  the  signs  aright 

And,  from  the  angle  of  thy  perfect  sight, 

See  Truth's  white  banner  floating  on 

before  ; 
And  the  Good  Cause,  despite  of  venal 

friends, 
And  base  expedients,  move  to  noble 

ends  ; 
See   Peace   with    Freedom  make  to 

Time  amends, 
And,    through  its   cloud  of  dust,   the 

threshing-floor, 
Flailed  by  thy  thunder,  heaped  with 

chaffiess  grain  ! 
1857- 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


261 


THE   FIRST  FLOWERS. 

FOR  ages  on  our  river  borders, 
These  tassels  in  their  tawny  bloom, 

And  willowy  studs  of  downy  silver, 
Have  prophesied  of  Spring  to  come. 

For  ages  have  the  unbound  waters 
Smiled  on  them  from   their  pebbly 
hem, 

And  the  clear  carol  of  the  robin 

And  song  of  bluebird  welcomed  them. 

But  never  yet  from  smiling  river, 
Or  song  of  early  bird,  have  they 

Been  greeted  with  a  gladder  welcome 
Than  whispers  from  my  heart  to-day. 

They  break  the  spell  of  cold  and  dark 
ness, 

The  weary  watch  of  sleepless  pain  ; 
And  from  my  heart,  as  from  the  river, 

The  ice  of  winter  melts  again. 

Thanks,  Mary!  for  this  wild- wood  token 
Of  Freya's  footsteps  drawing  near  ; 

Almost,  as  in  the  rune  of  Asgard, 
The  growing  of  the  grass  I  hear. 

It  is  as  if  the  pine-trees  called  me 
From  ceiled  room  and  silent  books, 

To  see  the  dance  of  woodland  shadows, 
And  hear  the  song  of  April  brooks  ! 

As  in  the  old  Teutonic  ballad 

Live  singing  bird  and  flowering  tree, 

Together  live  in  bloom  and  music, 
I  blend  in  song  thy  flowers  and  thee. 

Earth's  rocky  tablets  bear  forever 
The  dint  of  rain  and  small  bird's  track: 

Who  knows  but  that  my  idle  verses 
May  leave  some  trace  by  Merrimack ! 

The  bird  that  trod  the  mellow  layers 

Of  the  young  earth  is  sought  in  vain  ; 
The  cloud  is  gone  that  wove  the  sand 
stone, 

From  God's  design,  with  threads  of 
rain  J 

So,  when  this  fluid  age  we  live  in 
Shall  stiffen  round  mycareless  rhyme, 


Who  made  the  vagrant   tracks    may 

puzzle 
The  savans  of  the  coming  time  : 

And,  following  out  their  dim  sugges 
tions, 

Some  idly-curious  hand  may  draw 
My  doubtful  portraiture,  as  Cuvier 

Drew  fish  and  bird  from  fin  and  claw. 

And  maidens  in  the  far-off  twilights, 
Singing  my  words  tobreezeandstream, 

Shall  wonder  if  the  old-time  Mary 
Were  real,  or  the  rhymer's  dream  ! 

ist  -$d  mo.,  1857. 


MY  NAMESAKE. 

You  scarcely  need  my  tardy  thanks, 
Who,  self-rewarded,  nurse  and  tend — 

Agreen  leafon  your  own  Green  Banks — 
The  memory  of  your  friend. 

For  me,  no  wreath,  bloom-woven,  hides 
The  sobered  brow  and  lessening  hair : 

For  aught  I  know,  the  myrtled  sides 
Of  Helicon  are  bare. 

Their  scallop-shells  so  many  bring 
The  fabled  founts  of  song  to  try, 

They  've  drained,  for  aught  I  know,  the 

spring 
Of  Aganippe  dry. 

Ah  well  !— The  wreath  the  Muses  braid 
Proves  often  Folly's  cap  and  bell ; 

Methinks,  my  ample  beaver's  shade 
May  serve  my  turn  as  well. 

Let    Love's  and   Friendship's  tender 
debt 

Be  paid  by  those  I  love  in  life. 
Why  should  the  unborn  critic  whet 

For  me  his  scalping-knife  ? 

Why  should  the  stranger  peer  and  pry 
One's  vacant  house  of  life  about, 

And  drag  for  curious  ear  and  eye 
His  faults  and  follies  jut  ?  — 

Why  stuff,  for  fools  to  gaze  upon, 
With  chaff  of  words,  the  garb  he  wore, 


LATER  POEMS. 


As  corn-husks  when  the  ear  is  gone 
Are  rustled  all  the  more  ? 

Let  kindly  Silence  close  again, 
The  picture  vanish  from  the  eye, 

And  on  the  dim  and  misty  main 
Let  the  small  ripple  die. 

Yet  not  the  less  I  own  your  claim 
To  grateful  thanks,   dear  friends  of 
mine. 

Hang,  if  it  please  you  so,  my  name 
Upon  your  household  line. 

Let  Fame  from  brazen  lips  blow  wide 
Her  chosen  names,  I  envy  none  : 

A  mother's  love,  a  father's  pride, 
Shall  keep  alive  my  own  ! 

Still  shall  that  name  as  now  recall 
The  young  leaf  wet  with  morning  dew, 

The  glory  where  the  sunbeams  fall 
The  breezy  woodlands  through. 

That  name  shall  be  a  household  word, 
A  spell  to  waken  smile  or  sigh  ; 

In  many  an  evening  prayer  be  heard 
And  cradle  lullaby. 

And  thou,  dear  child,  in  riper  days 
When  asked  the  reason  of  thy  name, 

Shalt  answer:    "One  'twere   vain   to 

praise 
Or  censure  bore  the  same. 

"Some  blamed   him,   some    believed 

him  good,  — 
The  truth   lay  doubtless   'twixt  the 

two,  — 

He  reconciled  as  best  he  could 
Old  faith  and  fancies  new. 

"  In  him  the  grave  and  playful  mixed, 
And  wisdom  held  with  folly  truce, 

And  Nature  compromised  betwixt 
Good  fellow  and  recluse. 

"  He  loved  his  friends,  forgave  his  foes; 

And,  if  his  words  were  harsh  at  times, 
He  spared  his  fellow-men,  —  his  blows 

Fell  only  on  their  crimes. 

"  He  loved  the  good  and  wise,  but  found 
His  human  heart  to  all  akin 


Who  met  him  on  the  common  ground 
Of  suffering  and  of  sin. 

"  Whate'er  his  neighbors  might  endure 
Of  pain  or  grief  his  own  became  ; 

For  all  the  ills  he  could  not  cure 
He  held  himself  to  blame. 

"  His  good  was  mainly  an  intent, 
His  evil  not  of  forethought  done; 

The  work  he  wrought  was  rarely  meant 
Or  finished  as  begun. 

"  111  served  his  tides  of  feeling  strong 
To  turn  the  common  mills  of  use  ; 

And,  over-restless  wings  of  song, 
His  birthright  garb  hung  loose  ! 

"  His  eye  was  beauty's  powerless  slave, 
And  his  the  ear  which  discord  pains  : 

Few  guessed  beneath  his  aspect  grave 
What  passions  strove  in  chains. 

"  He  had  his  share  of  care  and  pain, 
No  holiday  was  life  to  him  ; 

Still  in  the  heirloom  cup  we  drain 
The  bitter  drop  will  swim. 

"Yet  Heaven  was  kind,  and  here  a  bird 
And  there  a  flower  beguiled  his  way ; 

And,  cool,  in  summer  noons,  he  heard 
The  fountains  plash  and  play. 

"  On  all  his  sad  or  restless  moods 
The  patient  peace  of  Nature  stole ; 

The  quiet  of  the  fields  and  woods 
Sank  deep  into  his  soul. 

"  He  worshipped  as  his  fathers  did, 
And  kept  the  faith  of  childish  days, 

And,  howsoe'er  he  strayed  or  slid, 
He  loved  the  good  old  ways. 

"  The  simple  tastes,  the  kindly  traits, 
The  tranquil  air,  and  gentle  speech, 

The  silence  of  the  soul  that  waits 
For  more  than  man  to  teach. 

"  The  cant  of  party,  school,  and  sect, 
Provoked  at  times  his  honest  scorn. 

And  Folly,  in  its  gray  respect, 
He  tossed  on  satire's  horn. 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


263 


"  But  still  his  heart  was  full  of  awe 
And  reverence  for  all  sacred  things  ; 

And,  brooding  over  form  and  law, 
He  saw  the  Spirit's  wings  ! 

"  Life's  mystery  wrapt  him  like  a  cloud  ; 

He  heard  far  voices  mock  his  own, 
The  sweep  of  wings  unseen,  the  loud, 

Long  roll  of  waves  unknown. 

"  The  arrows  of  his  straining  sight  _ 
Fell  quenched  in  darkness;    priest 
and  sage, 

Like  lost  guides  calling  left  and  right, 
Perplexed  his  doubtful  age. 

"Like  childhood,  listening  for  the  sound 
Of  its  dropped  pebbles  in  the  well, 

All  vainly  down  the  dark  profound 
His  brief-lined  plummet  fell. 

"  So,  scattering  flowers  with  pious  pains 
On  old  beliefs,  of  later  creeds, 

Which  claimed  a  place  in  Truth's  do 
mains, 
He  asked  the  title-deeds. 

"  He   saw  the   old-time's  groves  and 
shrines 

In  the  long  distance  fair  and  dim ; 
And  heard,  like  sound  of  far-off  pines, 

The  century-mellowed  hymn  ! 

"  He  dared  not  mock  the  Dervish  whirl, 
The  Brahmin's  rite,  the  Lama's  spell; 

God  knew  the  heart :  Devotion's  pearl 
Might  sanctify  the  shell. 

"  While  others  trod  the  altar  stairs 
He  faltered  like  the  publican  ; 

And,  while  they  praised  as  saints,  his 

prayers 
Were  those  of  sinful  man. 


"  For,  awed  by  Sinai's  Mount  of  Law, 
The  trembling  faith  alone  sufficed, 

That,  through  its  cloud  and  flame,  he 

saw 
The  sweet,  sad  face  of  Christ !  — 

"And    listening,    with    his    forehead 
bowed, 

Heard  the  Divine  compassion  fill 
The  pauses  of  the  trump  and  cloud 

With  whispers  small  and  still. 

"  The  words  he  spake,  the  thoughts  he 
penned, 

Are  mortal  as  his  hand  and  brain, 
But,  if  they  served  the  Master's  end, 

He  has  not  lived  in  vain  !  " 

Heaven  make  thee  better   than    thy 

name, 
Child  of  my  friends!  —  For  thee   I 

crave 

What  riches  never  bought,  nor  fame 
To  mortal  longing  gave. 

I  pray  the  prayer  of  Plato  old  : 
God  make  thee  beautiful  within, 

And  let  thine  eyes  the  good  behold 
In  everything  save  sin  ! 

Imagination  held  in  check 

To  serve  not  rule  thy  poised  mind ; 
Thy  Reason,  at  the  frown  or  beck 

Of  Conscience,  loose  or  bind. 

No  dreamer  thou,  but  real  all,  — 
Strong  manhood  crowning  vigorous 
youth ; 

Life  made  by  duty  epical 
And  rhythmic  with  the  truth. 

So  shall  that  life  the  fruitage  yield 
Which  trees  of  healing  only  give, 

And  green-leafed  in  the  Eterna." 
Of  God,  forever  live  ! 


HOME    BALLADS. 


i860. 


I  CALL  the  old  time  back  :  I  bring  these  lays 
To  thee,  in  memory  of  the  summer  days 
When,  by  our  native  streams  and  forest  ways, 

We  dreamed  them  over ;  while  the  rivulets  made 
Songs  of  their  own,  and  the  great  pine-trees  laid 
On  warm  noon-lights  the  masses  of  their  shade. 

And  site  was  with  vs,  living  o'er  again 

Her  life  in  ours,  despite  of  years  and  pain, — 

The  autumn's  brightness  after  latter  rain. 

Beautiful  in  her  holy  peace  as  one 

Who  stands,  at  evening,  when  the  work  is  done, 

Glorified  in  the  setting  of  the  sun  ! 

Her  memory  makes  our  common  landscape  seem 

Fairer  than  any  of  which  painters  dream, 

Lights  the  brown  hills  and  sings  in  every  stream ; 

For  she  whose  speech  was  always  truth's  pure  gold 
Heard,  not  unpleased,  its  simple  legends  told, 
And  loved  with  us  the  beautiful  and  old. 


HOME    BALLADS 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER. 

IT  was  the  pleasant  harvest  time, 
When  cellar-bins  are  closely  stowed, 
And  garrets  bend  beneath  their  load, 

And  the  old  swallow-haunted  barns  — 
Brown-gabled,  long,  and  full  of  seams 
Through  which  the  moted  sunlight 
streams, 

And  winds  blow  freshly  in,  to  shake 
The  red  plumes  of  the  roosted  cocks, 
And   the   loose    hay-mow's    scented 
locks  — 

Are  filled  with  summer's  ripened  stores, 
Its  odorous  grass  and  barley  sheaves, 
From  their  low  scaffolds  to  their  eaves. 

On  Esek  Harden's  oaken  floor, 

With  many  an  autumn  threshing  worn, 
Lay  the  heaped  ears  of  unhusked  corn. 

And  thither  came  young  men  and  maids, 
Beneath  a  moon  that,  large  and  low, 
Lit  that  sweet  eve  of  long  ago. 

They    took    their    places ;    some    by 

chance, 

And  others  by  a  merry  voice 
Or  sweet  smile  guided  to  their  choice. 

How  pleasantly  the  rising  moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great 
elm-boughs  !  — 

On  sturdy  boyhood  sun-embrowned, 
On  girlhood  with  its  solid  curves 
Of  healthful  strength  and  painless 


And  jests  went  round,  and  laughs  that 

made 

The  house-dog  answer  with  his  howl, 
And  kept  astir  the  barn-yard  fowl ; 

And  quaint  old  songs  their  fathers  sung, 
In  Derby  dales  and  Yorkshire  moors, 
Ere    Norman    William    trod    their 
shores ; 

And  tales,  whose  merry  license  shook 
The  fat  sides  of  the  Saxon  thane, 
Forgetful  of  the  hovering  Dane  ! 

But  still  the  sweetest  voice  was  mute 
That  river-valley  ever  heard 
From  lip  of  maid  or  throat  of  bird ; 

For  Mabel  Martin  sat  apart, 
And  let  the  hay-mow's  shadow  fall 
Upon  the  loveliest  face  of  all. 

She  sat  apart,  as  one  forbid, 

Who  knew  that  none  would  conde 
scend 

To  own  the  Witch-wife's  child  a 
friend. 

The  seasonsscarce  had  gone  their  round, 
Since  curious  thousands  thronged  to 

see 
Her  mother  on  the  gallows-tree  ; 

And  mocked  the  palsied  limbs  of  age, 
That  faltered  on  the  fatal  stairs, 
And    wan    lip    trembling    with     its 
prayers ! 


268 


HOME  BALLADS. 


They  went  up  to  their  homes  that  day, 
As  men  and  Christians  justified  : 
God  willed  it,  and  the  wretch  had 
died! 

Dear  God  and  Father  of  us  all, 
Forgive  our  faith  in  cruel  lies,  — 
Forgive  the  blindness  that  denies  1 

Forgive  thy  creature  when  he  takes, 
For  the  all-perfect  love  thou  art, 
Some  grim  creation  of  his  heart. 

Cast  down  our  idols,  overturn 
Our  bloody  altars ;  let  us  see 
Thyself  in  thy  humanity  I 

Poor  Mabel  from  her  mother's  grave 
Crept  to  her  desolate  hearth-stone, 
And  wrestled  with  her  fate  alone ; 

With  love,  and  anger,  and  despair, 
The  phantoms  of  disordered  sense, 
The  awful  doubts  of  Providence  ! 

The  school-boys  jeered    her  as  they 


And,  when  she  sought  the  house  of 

prayer, 
Her  mother's  curse  pursued  her  there. 

And  still  o'er  many  a  neighboring  door 
She    saw    the    horseshoe's    curved 

charm, 
Toguard  againsthermother'sharm ; — 

That  mother,  poor,  and  sick,  and  lame, 
Who  daily,  by  the  old  arm-chair, 
Folded  her  withered  hands  in  pray 
er ; — 

Who  turned,  in  Salem's  dreary  jail, 
Her  worn  old  Bible  o'er  and  o'er, 
When   her  dim  eyes  could  read  no 
more  ! 

Sore  tried   and  pained,  the  poor  girl 

kept 

Her  faith,  and  trusted  that  her  way, 
So  dark,  would  somewhere  meet  the 

day. 

And  still  her  weary  wheel  went  round 
Day  after  day,  with  no  relief ; 
Small  leisure  have  the  poor  for  grief. 


So  in  the  shadow  Mabel  sits ; 
Untouched  by  mirth  she  sees  and 

hears, 
Her  smile  is  sadder  than  her  tears. 

But  cruel  eyes  have  found  her  out, 
And  cruel  lips  repeat  her  name, 
And  taunt  her  with  her    mother's 
shame. 

She  answered  not  with  railing  words, 
But  drew  her  apron  o'er  her  face, 
And,  sobbing,  glided  from  the  place. 

And  only  pausing  at  the  door, 

Her  sad  eyes  met  the  troubled  gaze 
Of  one  who,  in  her  better  days, 

Had  been  her  warm  and  steady  friend, 
Ere  yet  her  mother's  doom  had  made 
Even  Esek  Harden  half  afraid. 

He  felt  that  mute  appeal  of  tears, 
And,  starting,  with  an  angry  frown 
Hushed    all    the    wicked    murmurs 
down. 

"  Good  neighbors  mine,"   he  sternly 

said, 

"  This  passes  harmless  mirth  or  jest; 
I  brook  no  insult  to  my  guest. 

"  She  is  indeed  her  mother's  child  ; 
But  God's  sweet  pity  ministers 
Unto  no  whiter  soul  than  hers. 

"  Let  Goody  Martin  rest  in  peace  ; 
I  never  knew  her  harm  a  fly, 
And  witch  or  not,  God  knows, — not  I. 

"I  know  who  swore  her  life  away  ; 
And,  as  God  lives,  I  'd  not  condemn 
An  Indian  dog  on  word  of  them." 

The  broadest  lands  in  all  the  town, 
The  skill  to  guide,  the  power  to  awe, 
Were  Harden's ;  and  his  word  was 
law. 

None  dared  withstand  him  to  his  face, 
But  one  sly  maiden  spake  aside  : 
"  The  little  witch  is  evil-eyed  I 


THE    WITCHES  DAUGHTER. 


269 


"  Her  mother  only  killed  a  cow, 
Or  witched  a  churn  or  dairy-pan  ; 
But  she,    forsooth,   must    charm    a 
man  ! " 

Poor  Mabel,  in  her  lonely  home, 
Sat  by  the  window's  narrow  pane, 
White  in  the  moonlight's  silver  rain. 

The  river,  on  its  pebbled  rim, 

Made  music  such  as  childhood  knew  ; 
The  door-yard  tree  was  whispered 
through 

By  voices  such  as  childhood's  ear 
Had  heard  in  moonlights  long  ago  ; 
And  through  the  willow-boughs  be 
low 

She  saw  the  rippled  waters  shine  ; 
Beyond,  in  waves  of  shade  and  light 
The  hills  rolled  off  into  the  night. 

Sweet  sounds  and  pictures  mocking  so 
The  sadness  of  her  human  lot, 
She  saw  and  heard,  but  heeded  not. 

She  strove  to  drown  her  sense  of  wrong, 
And,  in  her  old  and  simple  way, 
To  teach  her  bitter  heart  to  pray. 

Poor  child  !  the  prayer,  begun  in  faith, 
Grew  to  a  low,  despairing  cry 
Of  utter  misery  :  "  Let  me  die  I 

"  Oh  !  take  me  from  the  scornful  eyes 
And  hide  me  where  the  cruel  speech 
And  mocking  finger  may  not  reach  ! 

"  I  dare  not  breathe  my  mother's  name : 
A  daughter's  right  I  dare  not  crave 
To  weep  above  her  unblest  grave  ! 

"  Let  me  not  live  until  my  heart, 
With  few  to  pity,  and  with  none 
To  love  me,  hardens  into  stone. 

"  O  God  !  have  mercy  on  thy  child, 
Whose  faith  in  thee  grows  weak  and 

small, 
And  take  me  ere  I  lose  it  all  !  " 


A  shadow  on  the  moonlight  fell, 
And  murmuring  wind  and  wave  be 
came 
A  voice  whose  burden  was  her  name. 

Had  then  God  heard  her?    Had  he 

sent 

His  angel  down  ?    In  flesh  and  blood, 
Before  her  Esek  Harden  stood  ! 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm  : 
"  Dear   Mabel,   this  no  more  shall 

be; 
Who  scoffs  at  you,  must  scoff  at  me. 

"  You  know  rough  Esek  Harden  well ; 
And  if  he  seems  no  suitor  gay, 
And  if  his  hair  is  touched  with  gray, 

"  The  maiden  grown  shall  never  find 
His  heart  less  warm  than  when  she 

smiled, 
Upon  his  knees,  a  little  child  !  " 

Her  tears  of  grief  were  tears  of  joy,* 
As,  folded  in  his  strong  embrace, 
She  looked  in  Esek  Harden's  face. 

"  O  truest  friend  of  all !  "  she  said, 
"God    bless    you    for    your    kindly 

thought, 
And  make  me  worthy  of  my  lot  I  " 

He  led  her  through  his  dewy  fields, 
To  where  the  swinging  lanterns 

glowed, 

And  through  the  doors  the  huskers 
showed. 

"  Good  friends  and  neighbors  ! "  Esek 

said, 

"  I  'm  weary  of  this  lonely  life  ; 
In  Mabel  see  my  chosen  wife  ! 

"  She  greets  you  kindly,  one  and  all ; 
The  past  is  past,  and  all  offence 
Falls  harmless  from  her  innocence. 

"  Henceforth  she  stands  no  more  alone ; 
You  know  what  Esek  Harden  is_:  — 
He  brooks  no  wrong  to  him  or  his." 


270 


HOME  BALLADS. 


Now  let  the  merriest  tales  be  told, 
And  let  the  sweetest  songs  be  sung 
That  ever  made  the  old  heart  young  ! 

For  now  the  lost  has  found  a  home  ; 
And   a   lone    hearth    shall    brighter 

burn, 
As  all  the  household  joys  return  ! 


O,  pleasantly  the  harvest-moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great 
elm-boughs  ! 

On  Mabel's  curls  of  golden  hair, 
On  Esek's  shaggy  strength  it  fell ; 
And  the  wind  whispered,  "It  is  well !" 


THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN. 

FROM  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking,  far  beneath  the  tent-like  span 
Of  the  sky,  I  see  the  white  gleam  of  the  headland  of  Cape  Ann. 
Well  I  know  its  coves  and  beaches  to  the  ebb-tide  glimmering  down, 
And  the  white-walled  hamlet  children  of  its  ancient  fishing-town. 

Long  has  passed  the  summer  morning,  and  its  memory  waxes  old, 
When  along  yon  breezy  headlands  with  a  pleasant  friend  I  strolled. 
Ah  !  the  autumn  sun  is  shining,  and  the  ocean  wind  blows  cool, 
And  the  golden-rod  and  aster  bloom  around  thy  grave,  Rantoul  ! 

With  the  memory  of  that  morning  by  the  summer  sea  I  blend 
A  wild  and  wondrous  story,  by  the  younger  Mather  penned, 
"  In  that  quaint  Magnalia  Christi,  with  all  strange  and  marvellous  things, 
Heaped  up  huge  and  undigested,  like  the  chaos  Ovid  sings. 

Dear  to  me  these  far,  faint  glimpses  of  the  dual  life  of  old, 
Inward,  grand  with  awe  and  reverence  ;  outward,  mean  and  coarse  and  cold ; 
Gleams  of  mystic  beauty  playing  over  dull  and  vulgar  clay, 
Golden-threaded  fancies  weaving  in  a  web  of  hodden  gray. 

The  great  eventful  Present  hides  the  Past ;  but  through  the  din 
Of  its  loud  life  hints  and  echoes  from  the  life  behind  steal  in  ; 
And  the  lore  of  home  and  fireside,  and  the  legendary  rhyme, 
Make  the  task  of  duty  lighter  which  the  true  man  owes  his  time. 

So,  with  something  of  the  feeling  which  the  Covenanter  knew, 

When  with  pious  chisel  wandering  Scotland's  moorland  graveyards  through, 

From  the  graves  of  old  traditions  I  part  the  blackberry-vines, 

Wipe  the  moss  from  off  the  headstones,  and  retouch  the  faded  lines. 


Where  the  sea-waves  back  and  forward,  hoarse  with  rolling  pebbles,  ran, 
The  garrison-house  stood  watching  on  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann  ; 
On  its  windy  site  uplifting  gabled  roof  and  palisade, 
And  rough  walls  of  unhewn  timber  with  the  moonlight  overlaid. 

On  his  slow  round  walked  the  sentry,  south  and  eastward  looking  forth 
O'er  a  rude  and  broken  coast-line,  white  with  breakers  stretching  north,  — 
Wood  and  rock  and  gleaming  sand-drift,  jagged  capes,  with  bush  and  tree, 
Leaning  inland  from  the  smiting  of  the  wild  and  gusty  sea. 


THE   GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN.  2 

Before  the  deep-mouthed  chimney,  dimly  lit  by  dying  brands, 
Twenty  soldiers  sat  and  waited,  with  their  muskets  in  their  hands  ; 
On  the  rough-hewn  oaken  table  the  venison  haunch  was  shared, 
And  the  pewter  tankard  circled  slowly  round  from  beard  to  beard. 

Long  they  sat  and  talked  together,  —  talked  of  wizards  Satan-sold ; 
Of  all  ghostly  sights  and  noises,  —  signs  and  wonders  manifold ; 
Of  the  spectre-ship  of  Salem,  with  the  dead  men  in  her  shrouds, 
Sailing  sheer  above  the  water,  in  the  loom  of  morning  clouds ; 

Of  the  marvellous  valley  hidden  in  the  depths  of  Gloucester  woods, 
Full  of  plants  that  love  the  summer,  —  blooms  of  warmer  latitudes; 
Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  braided  by  the  tropic's  flowery  vines, 
And  the  white  magnolia-blossoms  star  the  twilight  of  the  pines ! 

But  their  voices  sank  yet  lower,  sank  to  husky  tones  of  fear, 
As  they  spake  of  present  tokens  of  the  powers  of  evil  near; 
Of  a  spectral  host,  defying  stroke  of  steel  and  aim  of  gun  ; 
Never  yet  was  ball  to  slay  them  in  the  mould  of  mortals  run  ! 

Thrice,  with  plumes  and  flowing  scalp-locks,  from  the  midnight  wood  they  came, 
Thrice  around  the  block-house  marching,  met,  unharmed  its  volleyed  flame  ; 
Then,  with  mocking  laugh  and  gesture,  sunk  in  earth  or  lost  in  air, 
All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and  the  moonlit  sands  lay  bare. 

Midnight  came  ;  from  out  the  forest  moved  a  dusky  mass  that  soon 
Grew  to  warriors,  plumed  and  painted,  grimly  marching  in  the  moon. 
"  Ghosts  or  witches,"  said  the  captain,  "thus  I  foil  the  Evil  One  !  " 
And  he  rammed  a  silver  button,  from  his  doublet,  down  his  gun. 

Once  again  the  spectral  horror  moved  the  guarded  wall  about ; 
Once  again  the  levelled  muskets  through  the  palisades  flashed  out, 
With  that  deadly  aim  the  squirrel  on  his  tree-top  might  not  shun, 
Nor  the  beach-bird  seaward  flying  with  his  slant  wing  to  the  sun. 

Like  the  idle  rain  of  summer  sped  the  harmless  shower  of  lead. 
With  a  laugh  of  fierce  derision,  once  again  the  phantoms  fled  ; 
Once  again,  without  a  shadow'  on  the  sands  the  moonlight  lay, 
And  the  white  smoke  curling  through  it  drifted  slowly  down  the  bay  ! 

"  God  preserve  us  !  "  said  the  captain  ;  "never  mortal  foes  were  there  ; 
They  have  vanished  with  their  leader,  Prince  and  Power  of  the  air  ! 
Lay  aside  your  useless  weapons ;  skill  and  prowess  naught  avail ; 
They  who  do  the  Devil's  service  wear  their  master's  coat  of  mail !  " 

So  the  night  grew  near  to  cock-crow,  when  again  a  warning  call 
Roused  the  score  of  weary  soldiers  watching  round  the  dusky  hall : 
And  they  looked  to  flint  and  priming,  and  they  longed  for  break  of  day; 
But  the  captain  closed  his  Bible  :  "  Let  us  cease  from  man,  and  pray  !** 

To  the  men  who  went  before  us,  all  the  unseen  powers  seemed  near, 
And  their  steadfast  strength  of  courage  struck  its  roots  in  holy  fear. 
Every  hand  forsook  the  musket,  every  head  was  bowed  and  bare, 
Every  stout  knee  pressed  the  flag-stones,  as  the  captain  led  in  prayer. 


272 


HOME  BALLADS. 


Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching  of  the  spectres  round  the  wall, 
But  a  sound  abhorred,  unearthly,  smote  the  ears  and  hearts  of  all,  — 
Howls  of  rage  and  shrieks  of  anguish  !     Never  after  mortal  man 
Saw  the  ghostly  leaguers  marching  round  the  block-house  of  Cape  Ann. 

So  to  us  who  walk  in  summer  through  the  cool  and  sea-blown  town, 
From  the  childhood  of  its  people  comes  the  solemn  legend  down. 
Not  in  vain  the  ancient  fiction,  in  whose  moral  lives  the  youth 
And  the  fitness  and  the  freshness  of  an  undecaying  truth. 

Soon  or  late  to  all  our  dwellings  come  the  spectres  of  the  mind, 
Doubts  and  fears  and  dread  forebodings,  in  the  darkness  undefined  ; 
Round  us  throng  the  grim  projections  of  the  heart  and  of  the  brain. 
And  our  pride  of  strength  is  weakness,  and  the  cunning  hand  is  vain. 

In  the  dark  we  cry  like  children  ;  and  no  answer  from  on  high 
Breaks  the  crystal  spheres  of  silence,  and  no  white  wings  downward  fly; 
But  the  heavenly  help  we  pray  for  comes  to  faith,  and  not  to  sight, 
And  our  prayers  themselves  drive  backward  all  the  spirits  of  the  night ! 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL 
SEWALL. 

1697. 

UP  and  down  the  village  streets 
Strange  are  the  forms  my  fancy  meets, 
For  the  thoughts  and  things  of  to-day 

are  hid, 

And  through  the  veil  of  a  closed  lid 
The  ancient  worthies  I  see  again  : 
I  hear  the  tap  of  the  elder's  cane, 
And  his  awful  periwig  I  see, 
And  the   silver  buckles   of  shoe   and 

knee. 

Stately  and  slow,  with  thoughtful  air, 
His  black  cap  hiding  his  whitened  hair, 
Walks  the  Judge  of  the  great  Assize, 
Samuel  Sewall  the  good  and  wise. 
His  face  with  lines  of  firmness  wrought, 
He  wears  the  look  of  a  man  unbought, 
Who  swears   to   his  hurt  and  changes 

not ; 

Yet,  touched  and  softened  nevertheless 
With   the  grace   of  Christian   gentle 
ness, 
The  face  that  a  child  would  climb  to 

kiss  ! 

True  and  tender  and  brave  and  just, 
That  man   might  honor   and  woman 
trust. 


Touching  and  sad,  a  tale  is  told, 
Like  a  penitent  hymn  of  the  Psalmist 

old, 

Of  the  fast  which  the  good  man   life 
long  kept 

With  a  haunting  sorrow  that  never  slept, 
As  the  circling  year  brought  round  the 

time 

Of  an  error  that  left  the  sting  of  crime, 
When  he  sat  on  the  bench  of  the  witch 
craft  courts, 
With  the   laws  of  Moses  and   Hale's 

R  eports, 
And  spake,  in  the  name  of  both,  the 

word 

That  gave  the  witch's  neck  to  the  cord, 
And  piled  the  oaken  planks  that  pressed 
The  feeble  life  from  the  warlock's 

breast ! 

All  the  day  long,  from  dawn  to  dawn, 
His  door  was  bolted,  his  curtain  drawn  ; 
No  foot  on  his  silent  threshold  trod, 
No  eye  looked  on  him  save  that  of  God, 
As  he   baffled  the  ghosts  of  the  dead 

with  charms 
Of  penitent   tears,    and    prayers,   and 

psalms, 
And,   with   precious  proofs   from    the 

sacred  word 

Of  the  boundless  pity  and  love  of  the 
Lord, 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL   SEWALL. 


273 


His  faith  confirmed  and  his  trust  re 
newed 

That  the  sin  of  his  ignorance,  sorely 
rued, 

Might  be  washed  away  in  the  mingled 
flood 

Of  his  human  sorrow  and  Christ's  dear 
blood  ! 

Green  forever  the  memory  be 
Of  the  Judge  of  the  old  Theocracy, 
Whom  even  his  errors  glorified, 
Like  a  far-seen,  sunlit  mountain-side  > 
By  the  cloudy  shadows  which  o'er  it 

glide  ! 

Honor  and  praise  to  the  Puritan 
Who  the  halting  step  of  his  age  outran, 
And,  seeing  the  infinite  worth  of  man 
In  the  priceless  gift  the  Father  gave, 
In  the  infinite  love  that  stooped  to  save, 
Dared  not  brand  his  brother  a  slave  ! 
"  Who  doth  such  wrong,"  he  was  wont 

to  say, 

In  his  own  quaint,  picture-loving  way, 
"  Flings  up  to  Heaven  a  hand-grenade 
Which  God  shall  cast  down  upon  his 

head !  " 


Widely  as  heaven  and  hell,  contrast 
That  brave  old  jurist  of  the  past 
And  the  cunning  trickster  and  knave 

of  courts 

Who  the  holy  features  of  Truth  dis 
torts,  — 

Ruling  as  right  the  will  of  the  strong, 
Poverty,  crime,  and  weakness  wrong  ; 
Wide-eared  to  power,  to  the  wronged 

and  weak 

Deaf  as  Egypt's  gods  of  leek  ; 
Scoffing  aside  at  party's  nod 
Order  of  nature  and  law  of  God  ; 
For  whose  dabbled  ermine  respect  were 

waste, 

Reverence  folly,  and  awe  misplaced  ; 
Justice  of  whom  't  were  vain  to  seek 
As  from  Koordish  robber  or  Syrian 

Sheik  ! 
O,  leave  the  wretch  to  his  bribes  and 

sins  ; 

Let  him  rot  in  the  web  of  lies  he  spins  ! 
To  the  saintly  soul  of  the  early  day, 
To  the  Christian  judge,  let  us  turn  and 

say: 


"  Praise    and    thanks    for    an    honest 

man  !  — 
Glory  to  God  for  the  Puritan  !  " 

I  see,  far  southward,  this  quiet  day, 
The  hills  of  Newbury  rolling  away, 
With  the  many  tints  of  the  season  gay, 
Dreamily  blending  in  autumn  mist 
Crimson,  and  gold,  and  amethyst. 
Long    and    low,     with      dwarf    trees 

crowned, 

Plum  Island  lies,  like  a  whale  aground, 
A  stone's  toss  over  the  narrow  sound. 
Inland,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  go, 
The   hills   curve  round  like  a  bended 

bow  ; 

A  silver  arrow  from  out  them  sprung, 
I  see  the  shine  of  the  Quasycung  ; 
And,  round  and  round,  over  valley  and 

hill, 

Old  roads  winding,  as  old  roads  will, 
Here  to  a  ferry,  and  there  to  a  mill ; 
And  glimpses  of  chimneys  and  gabled 

eaves, 
Through  green  elm  arches  and  maple 

leaves,  — 

Old  homesteads  sacred  to  all  that  can 
Gladden  or  sadden  the  heart  of  man,  — • 
Over  whose  thresholds  of  oak  and  stone 
Life  and  Death  have  come  and  gone  ! 
There   pictured   tiles  in   the   fireplace 

show, 

Great  beams  sag  from  the  ceiling  low, 
The  dresser  glitters  with  polished  wares, 
The  long  clock  ticks  on  the  foot-worn 

stairs, 
And  the  low,  broad  chimney  shows  the 

crack 
By  the   earthquake    made    a  century 

back. 
Up  from  their  midst  springs  the  village 

spire 
With  the  crest  of  its  cock  in  the  sun 

afire  ; 

Beyond  are  orchards  and  planting  lands, 
And  great  salt  marshes  and  glimmering 

sands, 

And,  where  north  and  south  the  coast 
lines  run, 
The  blink  of  the  sea  in  breeze  and  sun  ! 

I  see  it  all  like  a  chart  unrolled, 
But  my  thoughts  are  full  of  the  past 
and  old, 


274 


HOME  BALLADS. 


I  hear  the  tales  of  my  boyhood  told  ; 
And  the  shadows  and  shapes  of  early 

days 

Flit  dimly  by  in  the  veiling  haze, 
With  measured  movement  and  rhyth 
mic  chime 

Weaving  like  shuttles  my  web  of  rhyme. 
I  think  of  the  old  man  wise  and  good 
Who    once     on    yon    misty    hillsides 

stood, 

(A  poet  who  never  measured  rhyme, 
A  seer  unknown  to  his  dull-eared  time,) 
And,    propped    on    his     staff  of  age, 

looked  down, 
With  his  boyhood's  love,  on  his  native 

town, 
Where,  written,  as  if  on  its  hills  and 

plains, 

His  burden  of  prophecy  yet  remains, 
For  the  voices  of  wood,  and  wave,  and 

wind 
To  read  in    the    ear  of  the    musing 

mind :  — 

"  As  long  as  Plum  Island,  to  guard 

the  coast 

As  God  appointed,  shall  keep  its  post ; 
As  long  as  a  salmon  shall  haunt  the 

deep 

Of  Merrimack  River,  or  sturgeon  leap  ; 
As  long  as  pickerel  swift  and  slim, 
Or  red-backed  perch,  in  Crane  Pond 

swim  ; 

As  long  as  the  annual  sea-fowl  know 
Their  time  to  come  and  their  time  to 

go; 

As  long  as  cattle  shall  roam  at  will 
The  green,  grass  meadows  by  Turkey 

Hill ; 
As  long  as  sheep  shall  look  from  the 

side 

Of  Oldtown  Hill  on  marishes  wide, 
And  Parker  River,  and  salt-sea  tide  ; 
As  long  as  a  wandering  pigeon  shall 

search 
The  fields  below  from   his  white-oak 

perch, 
When  the  barley-harvest  is  ripe   and 

shorn 

And  the  dry  husks  fall  from  the  stand 
ing  corn ; 

As  long  as  Nature  shall  not  grow  old, 
Nor  drop   her  work  from  her  doting 

hold, 


And  her  care  for  the  Indian  corn  forget, 
And  the  yellow  rows  in  pairs  to  set ;  — 
So  long  shall  Christians  here  be  born, 
Grow  up   and  ripen  as   God's  sweet 

corn  !  — 
By  the  beak  of  bird,  by  the  breath  of 

frost 

Shall  never  a  holy  ear  be  lost, 
But,  husked  by  Death  in  the  Planter's 

sight,  ^ 
Be  sown  again  in  the  fields  of  light ! " 


The  Island  still  is  purple  with  plums, 

Up  the  river  the  salmon  comes, 

The  sturgeon  leaps,  and  the  wild-fowl 

feeds 

On  hillside  berries  and  marish  seeds,— 
All  the  beautiful  signs  remain, 
From   spring-time  sowing  to  autumn 

rain 

The  good  man's  vision  returns  again  ! 
And  let  us  hope,  as  well  we  can, 
That  the  Silent  Angel  who  garners  man 
May  find  some  grain  as  of  old  he  found 
In  the  human  cornfield  ripe  and  sound, 
And  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  deign  to 

own 
The  precious  seed  by  the  fathers  sown  ! 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE. 

OF  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme,  — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or  one-eyed  Calendar's  horse  of  brass, 
Witch  astride  of  a  human  hack, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak, — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead  ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in 

a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 


SKIPPER  /RESON'S  RIDE. 


375 


Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain  : 
"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an*  corr'd  in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 
Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 
Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 
Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 
Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 
Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 
With   conch-shells  blowing   and  fish- 
horns'  twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang  : 
"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Small  pity  for  him  !  —  He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship,  in  Chaleur  Bay,  — 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With   his  own   town's-people   on    her 

deck  ! 
"  Lay  by  !    lay  by  ! "    they  called  to 

him. 

Back  he  answered,  "  Sink  or  swim  ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  offish  again  !  " 
And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and 

rain  ! 

Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in 

a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea,  — 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not 

be  ! 
What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds 

say 

Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away  ?  — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in 

a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 


Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide  ; 
Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane, 
And   cracked   with   curses  the   hoarse 

refrain  : 
"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so 

blue. 

Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near  : 
"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  ! " 

"  Hear  me,   neighbors  !  "    at  last   he 

cried,  — 

"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horrorthatlives within? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck  ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me,  —  I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the 

dead  !  " 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard 

heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in 

a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,  "God  has  touched  him!  —  why 

should  we  ?  " 

Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 
"  Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him 

run  !  " 

So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity .  they  cut  him  loose, 


HOME  BALLADS. 


And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and 

sin. 

Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in 

a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 


TELLING  THE   BEES.«s 

HERE  is  the  place  ;  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took ; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall 

still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shal 
low  brook. 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate  red- 
barred, 

And  the  poplars  tall ; 
And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the 

cattle-yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above 
the  wall. 

There  are  the  beehives  ranged  in  the 

sun  ; 

And  down  by  the  brink 
Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed- 

o'errun, 
Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow  ; 

And  the   same    rose    blows,   and   the 
same  sun  glows, 

And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a  year 


There 's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell  in 
the  breeze  : 

And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Femside  farm. 

I  mind  me  how  with  a  lover's  care 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brushed  off  the  burrs,  and  smoothed 

my  hair, 

And  cooled    at    the    brookside    my 
brow  and  throat. 


Since  we  parted,  a  month  had  passed,  — 

To  love,  a  year ; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  looked  at 

last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well- 
sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now,  —  the  slantwise 

rain 

Of  light  through  the  leaves, 
The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  window- 
pane, 

The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the 
eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before,  — 

The  house  and  the  trees, 
The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by 

the  door,  — 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of 
bees. 

Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went   drearily   singing   the  chore-girl 

small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of 
black. 

Trembling,  I  listened  :  the  summer  sun 

Had  the  chill  of  snow  ; 
For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees  of 
one 

Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go  I 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  "My  Mary  weeps 

For  the  dead  to-day  : 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 

The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age  away.'* 

But  her  dog  whined  low  ;  on  the  door 
way  sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 
The  old  man  sat ;  and  the  chore-girl 

still 
Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 

And  the   song   she  was   singing  ever 

since 

In  my  ear  sounds  on  :  — 
"  Stay  at   home,   pretty  bees,  fly  not 

hence  ! 
Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone  ! " 


THE  SYCAMORES. 


277 


THE   SYCAMORES. 

IN  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 

Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand  the  ancient  sycamores. 

One  long  century  hath  been  numbered, 

And  another  half-way  told, 
Since  the  rustic  Irish  gleeman 

Broke  for  them  the  virgin  mould. 

Deftly  set  to  Celtic  music, 

At  his  violin's  sound  they  grew, 

Through  the  moonlit  eves  of  summer, 
Making  Amphion's  fable  true. 

Rise  again,  thpu  poor  Hugh  Tallant  ! 

Pass  in  jerkin  green  along, 
With  thy  eyes  brimful  of  laughter, 

And  thy  mouth  as  full  of  song. 

Pioneer  of  Erin's  outcasts, 
With  his  fiddle  and  his  pack ; 

Little  dreamed  the  village  Saxons 
Of  the  myriads  at  his  back. 

How  he  wrought  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Delved  by  day  and  sang  by  night, 

With  a  hand  that  never  wearied, 
And  a  heart  forever  light,  — 

Still  the  gay  tradition  mingles 
With  a  record  grave  and  drear, 

Like  the  rolic  air  of  Cluny, 
With  the  solemn  march  of  Mear. 

When  the  box-tree,  white  with  blossoms, 
Made  the  sweet  May  woodlands  glad, 

And  the  Aronia  by  the  river 
Lighted  up  the  swarming  shad, 

And  the  bulging  nets  swept  shoreward, 
With  their  silver-sided  haul, 

Midst  the  shouts  of  dripping  fishers, 
He  was  merriest  of  them  all. 

When,  among  the  jovial  huskers, 
Love  stole  in  at  Labor's  side 

With  the  lusty  airs  of  England, 
Soft  his  Celtic  measures  vied. 

Songs  of  love  and  wailing  lyke-wake, 
And  the  merry  fair's  carouse  ; 


Of  the  wild  Red  Fox  of  Erin 
And  the  Woman  of  Three  Cows, 

By  the  blazing  hearths  of  winter, 
Pleasant  seemed  his  simple  tales, 

Midst  the  grimmer  Yorkshire  legends 
And  the  mountain  myths  of  Wales. 

How  the  souls  in  Purgatory 
Scrambled  up  from  fate  forlorn, 

On  St.  Keven's  sackcloth  ladder, 
Slyly  hitched  to  Satan's  horn. 

Of  the  fiddler  who  at  Tara 

Played  all  night  to  ghosts  of  kings  ; 
Of  the  brown  dwarfs,  and  the  fairies 

Dancing  in  their  moorland  rings  ! 

Jolliest  of  our  birds  of  singing, 
Best  he  loved  the  Bob-o-link. 

"  Hush  !  "  he  'd  say,  "  the  tipsy  fairies  1 
Hear  the  little  folks  in  drink  !  " 

Merry-faced,  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Singing  through  the  ancient  town, 

Only  this,  of  poor  Hugh  Tallant, 
Hath  Tradition  handed  down. 

Not  a  stone  his  grave  discloses ; 

But  if  yet  his  spirit  walks, 
'T  is  beneath  the  trees  he  planted, 

And  when  Bob-o-Lincoln  talks  ; 

Green  memorials  of  the  gleeman  ! 

Linking  still  the  river-shores, 
With  their  shadows  cast  by  sunset, 

Stand  Hugh  Tallant's  sycamores  ! 

When  the  Father  of  his  Country 

Through  the  north-land  riding  came, 

And  the  roofs  were  starred  with  banners, 
And  the  steeples  rang  acclaim,  — 

When  each  war-scarred  Continental, 
Leaving  smithy,  mill,  and  farm, 

Waved  his  rusted  sword  in  welcome, 
And  shot  off  his  old  king's  arm,  — 

Slowly  passed  that  august  Presence 
Down    the    thronged   and  shouting 
street  ; 

Village  girls  as  white  as  angels, 
Scattering  flowers  around  his  feet. 


HOME  BALLADS. 


Midway,  where  the  plane-tree's  shadow 
Deepest  fell,  his  rein  he  drew  : 

On  his  stately  head,  uncovered, 
Cool  and  soft  the  west-wind  blew. 

And  he  stood  up  in  his  stirrups, 
Looking  up  and  looking  down 

On  the  hills  of  Gold  and  Silver 
Rimming  round  the  little  town,  — 

On  the  river,  full  of  sunshine, 
To  the  lap  of  greenest  vales 

Winding  down  from  wooded  headlands, 
Willow-skirted,  white  with  sails. 

And  he  said,  the  landscape  sweeping 
Slowly  with  his  ungloved  hand, 

"  I  have  seen  no  prospect  fairer 
In  this  goodly  Eastern  land." 

Then  the  bugles  of  his  escort 
Stirred  to  life  the  cavalcade  : 

And  that  head,  so  bare  and  stately, 
Vanished  down  the  depths  of  shade. 

Ever  since,  in  town  and  farm-house, 
Life  has  had  its  ebb  and  flow  ; 

Thrice  hath  passed  the  human  harvest 
To  its  garner  green  and  low. 

But  the  trees  the  gleeman  planted, 
Through    the    changes,    changeless 
stand  ; 

As  the  marble  calm  of  Tadmor 
Marks  the  desert's  shifting  sand. 

Still  the  level  moon  at  rising 
Silvers  o'er  each  stately  shaft ; 

Still  beneath  them,  half  in  shadow, 
Singing,  glides  the  pleasure  craft. 

Still  beneath  them,  arm-enfolded, 
Love  and  Youth  together  stray  ; 

While,  as  heart  to  heart  beats  faster, 
More  and  more  their  feet  delay. 

Where  the  ancient  cobbler,  Keezar, 
On  the  open  hillside  wrought, 

Singing,  as  he  drew  his  stitches, 

Songs  his  German  masters  taught,  — 

Singing,  with  his  gray  hair  floating 
Round  his  rosy  ample  face,  — 


Now  a  thousand  Saxon  craftsmen 
Stitch  and  hammer  in  his  place. 

All  the  pastoral  lanes  so  grassy 
Now  are  Traffic's  dusty  streets  ; 

From  the  village,  grown  a  city, 
Fast  the  rural  grace  retreats. 

But,  still  green,  and  tall,  and  stately, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 

Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand  Hugh  Tallant's  sycamores. 


THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE 
OF   NEWBURY. 

"Concerning  ye  Amphisbama,  as  soon  as 
I  received  your  commands,  I  made  dili 
gent  inquiry:  .  .  .  .  he  assures  me  yt  it  had 
really  two  heads,  one  at  each  end  ;  two 
mouths,  two  stings  or  tongues."  —  REV. 
CHRISTOPHER  TOPPAN  to  COTTON  MA 
THER. 

FAR  away  in  the  twilight  time 
Of  every  people,  in  every  clime, 
Dragons  and  griffins  and  monsters  dire, 
Born  of  water,  and  air,  and  fire, 
Or  nursed,  like  the  Python,  in  the  mud 
And  ooze  of  the  old  Deucalion  flood, 
Crawl  and  wriggle  and  foam  with  rage, 
Through  dusk  tradition  and  ballad  age. 
So  from  the  childhood  of  Newbury  town 
And  its  time  of  fable  the  tale  comes 

down 
Of  a  terror  which  haunted  bush  and 

brake, 
The  Amphisbasna,  the  Double  Snake  ! 

Thou  who  makest  the  tale  thy  mirth, 
Consider  that  strip  of  Christian  earth 
On  the  desolate  shore  of  a  sailless  sea, 
Full  of  terror  and  mystery, 
Half-redeemed  from  the  evil  hold 
Of  the  wood  so  dreary,  and  dark,  and 

old, 
Which  drank  with  its  lips  of  leaves  the 

dew 
When  Time  was  young,  and  the  world 

was  new, 
And  wove  its   shadows  with   sun  and 

moon, 
Ere  the  stones  of  Cheops  were  squared 

and  hewn.  * 


THE   DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE. 


Think  of  the  sea's  dread  monotone, 
Of  the  mournful  wail   from   the   pine- 
wood  blown, 
Of  the  strange,  vast  splendors  that  lit 

the  North, 
Of  the  troubled  throes  of  the  quaking 

earth, 

And  the  dismal  tales  the  Indian  told. 
Till  the  settlers   heart  at  his  hearth 

grew  cold,  , 

And  he  shrank  from  the  tawny  wizard's 

boasts, 
And  the  hovering  shadows  seemed  full 

of  ghosts, 

And  above,  below,  and  on  every  side, 
The  fear  of  his  creed  seemed  verified ;  — 
And  think,  if  his  lot  were  now  thine 

own, 
To  grope  with  terrors  nor  named  nor 

known, 

How  laxer  muscle  and  weaker  nerve 
And  a  feebler  faith  thy  need   might 

serve ; 

And  own  to  thyself  the  wonder  more 
That  the  snake  had  two  heads,  and  not 

a  score  ! 

Whether  he  lurked  in   the    Oldtown 

fen 
Or  the  gray  earth-flax  of  the   Devil's 

Den, 

Or  swam  in  the  wooded  Artichoke, 
Or  coiled  by  the  Northman's  Written 

Rock, 

Nothing  on  record  is  left  to  show  ; 
Only  the  fact  that  he  lived,  we  know, 
And  left  the  cast  of  a  double  head 
In  the  scaly  mask  which  he  yearly  shed. 
For  he  carried  a  head  where  his  tail 

should  be, 
And  the   two,  of  course,   could  never 

agree, 

But  wriggled  about  with  main  and  might, 
Now  to  the  left  and  now  to  the  right ; 
Pulling  and  twisting  this  way  and  that, 
Neither  knew  what  the  other  was  at. 
A  snake   with  two  heads,  lurking  so 

near  !  — 

Judge  of  the  wonder,  guess  at  the  fear  ! 
Think  what  ancient  gossips  might  say, 
Shaking  their  heads  in  their  dreary 

way, 

Between    the    meetings   *>n    Sabbath- 
day! 


How  urchins,  searching  at  day's  decline 
The  Common  Pasture  for  sheep  or 

kine, 

The  terrible  double-ganger  heard 
In  leafy  rustle  or  whir  of  bird  ! 
Think  what  a  zest  it  gave  to  the  sport, 
In  berry-time,  of  the  younger  sort, 
As  over  pastures  blackberry-twined, 
Reuben  and  Dorothy  lagged  behind, 
And  closer  and  closer,  for  fear  of  harm, 
The  maiden  clung  to  her  lover's  arm  ; 
And  how  the  spark,  who  was  forced  to 

stay, 
By  his  sweetheart's  fears,  till  the  break 

of  day, 
Thanked  the  snake  for  the  fond  delay  ! 

Far  and  wide  the  tale  was  told, 

Like  a  snowball  growing  while  it  rolled. 

The   nurse  hushed  with  it  the  baby's 

cry; 
And  it  served,  in  the  worthy  minister's 

eye, 

To  paint  the  primitive  serpent  by. 
Cotton  Mather  came  galloping  down 
All  the  way  to  Newbury  town, 
With  his  eyes   agog  and  his  ears  set 

wide, 
And   his    marvellous   inkhorn    at    his 

side ; 

Stirring  the  while  in  the  shallow  pool 
Of  his  brains  for  the  lore  he  learned  at 

school, 

To  garnish  the  story,  with  here  a  streak 
Of  Latin,  and  there  another  of  Greek  : 
And  the  tales  he  heard  and  the  notes  he 

took, 

Behold  !  are  they  not  in  his  Wonder- 
Book? 

Stories,  like  dragons,  are  hard  to  kill. 
If  the   snake  does  not,  the  tale  runs 

still 

In  Byfield  Meadows,  on  Pipestave  Hill. 
And  still,  whenever  husband  and  wife 
Publish  the  shame  of  their  daily  strife, 
And,  with  mad  cross-purpose,  tug  and 

strain 

At  either  end  of  the  marriage-chain, 
The  gossips  say,  with  a  knowing  shake 
Of  their   gray    heads,    "  Look   at  tha 

Double  Snake  ! 
One  in  body  and  two  in^will, 
The  Amphisbaena  is  living  still ! " 


28o  HOME  BALLADS. 

THE  SWAN  SONG  OF  PARSON  AVERY. 

WHEN  the  reaper's  task  was  ended,  and  the  summer  wearing  late, 
Parson  Avery  sailed  from  Newbury,  with  his  wife  and  children  eight, 
Dropping  down  the  river-harbor  in  the  shallop  "  Watch  and  Wait." 

Pleasantly  lay  the  clearings  in  the  mellow  summer-morn, 

With  the  newly  planted  orchards  dropping  their  fruits  first-born, 

And  the  homesteads  like  green  islands  amid  a  sea  of  corn. 

Broad  meadows  reached  out  seaward  the  tided  creeks  between, 
And  hills  rolled  wave-like  inland,  with  oaks  and  walnuts  green ;  — 
A  fairer  home,  a  goodlier  land,  his  eyes  had  never  seen. 

Yet  away  sailed  Parson  Avery,  away  where  duty  led, 

And  the  voice  of  God  seemed  calling,  to  break  the  living  bread 

To  the  souls  of  fishers  starving  on.  the  rocks  of  Marblehead. 

All  day  they  sailed  :  at  nightfall  the  pleasant  land-breeze  died, 
The  blackening  sky,  at  midnight,  its  starry  lights  denied, 
And  far  and  low  the  thunder  of  tempest  prophesied  ! 

Blotted  out  were  all  the  coast-lines,  gone  were  rock,  and  wood,  and  sand; 
Grimly  anxious  stood  the  skipper  with  the  rudder  in  his  hand, 
And  questioned  of  the  darkness  what  was  sea  and  what  was  land. 

And  the  preacher  heard  his  dear  ones,  nestled  round  him,  weeping  sore  : 
"  Never  heed,  my  little  children  !  Christ  is  walking  on  before 
To  the  pleasant  land  of  heaven,  where  the  sea  shall  be  no  more." 

All  at  once  the  great  cloud  parted,  like  a  curtain  drawn  aside, 
To  let  down  the  torch  of  lightning  on  the  terror  far  and  wide ; 
And  the  thunder  and  the  whirlwind  together  smote  the  tide. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  shallop,  woman's  wail  and  man's  despair, 
A  crash  of  breaking  timbers  on  the  rocks  so  sharp  and  bare, 
And,  through  it  all,  the  murmur  of  Father  Avery's  prayer. 

From  his  struggle  in  the  darkness  with  the  wild  waves  and  the  blast, 
On  a  rock,  where  every  billow  broke  above  him  as  it  passed, 
Alone,  of  all  his  household,  the  man  of  God  was  cast. 

There  a  comrade  heard  him  praying,  in  the  pause  of  wave  and  wind  : 
"All  my  own  have  gone  before  me,  and  I  linger  just  behind; 
Not  for  life  I  ask,  but  only  for  the  rest  thy  ransomed  find  ! 

"  In  this  night  of  death  I  challenge  the  promise  of  thy  word  !  — 
Let  me  see  the  great  salvation  of  which  mine  ears  have  heard !  — 
Let  me  pass  from  hence  forgiven,  through  the  grace  of  Christ,  our  Lord  ! 

"  In  the  baptism  of  these  waters  wash  white  my  every  sin, 
And  let  me  follow  up  to  thee  my  household  and  my  kin  ! 
Open  the  sea-gate  of  thy  heaven,  and  let  me  enter  in  ! " 


THE    TRUCE   OF  PISCATAQUA. 


281 


When  the  Christian  sings  his  death-song,  all  the  listening  heavens  draw  near, 

And  the  angels,  leaning  over  the  walls  of  crystal,  hear 

How  the  notes  so  faint  and  broken  swell  to  music  in  God's  ear. 

The  ear  of  God  was  open  to  his  servant's  last  request ; 

As  the  strong  wave  swept  him  downward  the  sweet  hymn  upward  pressed, 

And  the  soul  of  Father  Avery  went,  singing,  to  its  rest. 

There  was  wailing  on  the  main-land,  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead ; 
In  the  stricken  church  of  Newbury  the  notes  of  prayer  were  read  ; 
And  long,  by  board  and  hearthstone,  the  living  mourned  the  dead. 

And  still  the  fishers  outbound,  or  scudding  from  the  squall, 

With  grave  and  reverent  faces,  the  ancient  tale  recall, 

When  they  see  the  white  waves  breaking  on  the  Rock  of  Avery's  Fall ! 


THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA. 

1675- 
FAZE  these  long  blocks  of  brick  and 

stone, 

These  huge  mill-monsters  overgrown  ; 
Blot  out  the  humbler  piles  as  well, 
Where,    moved  like    living     shuttles, 

dwell 

The  weaving  genii  of  the  bell  ; 
Tear  from  the  wild  Cocheco's  track 
1'he  dams  that  hold  its  torrents  back ; 
And  let  the  loud-rejoicing  fall 
Plunge,  roaring,  down  its  rocky  wall ; 
And  let  the  Indian's  paddle  play 
On  the  unbridged  Piscataqua  ! 
Wide  over  hill  and  valley  spread 
Once  more  the  forest,  dusk  and  dread, 
With  here  and  there  a  clearing  cut 
From  the   walled    shadows    round  it 

shut ; 

Each  with  its  farm-house  builded  rude, 
By  English  yeoman  squared  and  hewed, 
And  '  the  grim,  flankered  block-house 

bound 

With  bristling  palisades  around. 
So,  haply,  shall  before  thine  eyes 
The  dusty  veil  of  centuries  rise, 
The  old,  strange  scenery  overlay 
The  tamer  pictures  of  to-day, 
While,  like  the  actors  in  a  play, 
Pass  in  their  ancient  guise  along 
The  figures  of  my  border  song  : 
What  time  beside  Cocheco's  flood 
The  white  man  and  the  red  man  stood, 
With  words  of  peace  and  brotherhood ; 


When  passed  the  sacred  calumet 
From  lip  to  lip  with  fire-draught  wet, 
And,  puffed  in  scorn,  the  peace-pipe's 

smoke 
Through  the  gray  beard  of  Waldron 

broke, 

And  Squando's  voice,  in  suppliant  plea 
For  mercy,  struck  the  haughty  key 
Of  one  who  held,  in  any  fate, 
His  native  pride  inviolate  ! 

"  Let  your  ears  be  opened  wide  ! 
He  who  speaks  has  never  lied. 
Waldron  of  Piscataqua, 
Hear  what  Squando  has  to  say  ! 

"  Squando  shuts  his  eyes  and  sees, 
Far  off,  Saco's  hemlock-trees. 
In  his  wigwam,  still  as  stone, 
Sits  a  woman  all  alone, 

"  Wampum  beads  and  birchen  strands 
Dropping  from  her  careless  hands, 
Listening  ever  for  the  fleet 
Patter  of  a  dead  child's  feet ! 

"  When  the  moon  a  year  ago 
Told  the  flowers  the  time  to  blow, 
In  that  lonely  wigwam  ^smiled 
Menewee,  our  little  child. 

i  grew  t 

He  was  lying  still  and  cold  ; 
Sent  before  us,  w-eak  and  small, 
When  the  Master  did  not  call  i 


HOME  BALLADS. 


"  On  his  little  grave  I  lay  ; 
Three  times  went  and  came  the  day  ; 
Thrice  above  me  blazed  the  noon, 
Thrice  upon  me  wept  the  moon. 

"  In  the  third  night-watch  I  heard, 
Far  and  low,  a  spirit-bird  ; 
Very  mournful,  very  wild, 
Sang  the  totem  of  my  child. 

"  '  Menewee,  poor  Menewee, 
Walks  a  path  he  cannot  see  : 
Let  the  white  man's  wigwam  light 
With  its  blaze  his  steps  aright. 

" '  All-uncalled,  he  dares  not  show 
Empty  hands  to  Manito  : 
Better  gifts  he  cannot  bear 
Than  the  scalps  his  slayers  wear.' 

"  All  the  while  the  totem  sang, 
Lightning  blazed  and  thunder  rang  ; 
And  a  black  cloud,  reaching  high, 
Pulled  the  white  moon  from  the  sky. 

"  I,  the  medicine-man,  whose  ear 
All  that  spirits  hear  can  hear,  — 
I,  whose  eyes  are  wide  to  see 
All  the  things  that  are  to  be,  — • 

"Well  I  knew  the  dreadful  signs 
In  the  whispers  of  the  pines, 
In  the  river  roaring  loud, 
In  the  mutter  of  the  cloud. 

"  At  the  breaking  of  the  day, 
From  the  grave  I  passed  away  ; 
Flowers  bloomed  round  me,  birds  sang 

glad, 
But  my  heart  was  hot  and  mad. 

"  There  is  rust  on  Squando's  knife, 
From  the  warm,  red  springs  of  life  ; 
On  the  funeral  hemlock-trees 
Many  a  scalp  the  totem  sees. 

"  Blood  for  blood  !     But  evermore 
Squando's  heart  is  sad  and  sore  ; 
And  his  poor  squaw  waits  at  home 
For  the  feet  that  never  come  ! 

"  Waldron  of  Cocheco,  hear  ! 
Squando  speaks,  who  laughs  at  fear  ; 


Take  the  captives  he  has  ta'en  ; 
Let  the  land  have  peace  again  !  " 

As  the  words  died  on  his  tongue, 
Wide  apart  his  warriors  swung  ; 
Parted,  at  the  sign  he  gave, 
Right  and  left,  like  Egypt's  wave. 

And,  like  Israel  passing  free 
Through  the  prophet-charmed  sea, 
Captive  mother,  wife,  and  child 
Through  the  dusky  terror  filed. 

One  alone,  a  little  maid, 
Middleway  her  steps  delayed, 
Glancing,  with  quick,  troubled  sight, 
Round  about  from  red  to  white. 

Then  his  hand  the  Indian  laid 
On  the  little  maiden's  head, 
Lightly  from  her  forehead  fair 
Smoothing  back  her  yellow  hair. 

"  Gift  or  favor  ask  I  none  ; 
What  I  have  is  all  my  own  : 
Never  yet  the  birds  have  sung, 
'  Squando  hath  a  beggar's  tongue.' 

"  Yet  for  her  who  waits  at  home, 
For  the  dead  who  cannot  come, 
Let  the  little  Gold-hair  be 
In  the  place  of  Menewee  ! 

"  Mishanock,  my  little  star  ! 
Come  to  Saco's  pines  afar  ; 
Where  the  sad  one  waits  at  home, 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  come  !  " 

"What!"  quoth  Waldron,    "leave  a 

child 

Christian-born  to  heathens  wild  ? 
As  God  lives,  from  Satan's  hand 
I  will  pluck  her  as  a  brand !  " 

"Hear  me,   white    man!"    Squando 

cried  ; 

"  Let  the  little  one  decide. 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  say, 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me,  or  stay  ? " 

Slowly,  sadly,  half  afraid, 

Half  regretfully,  the  maid 

Owned  the  ties  of  blood  and  race,  — 

Turned  from  Squando's  pleading  face, 


MY  PL  A  YMA  TE. 


283 


Not  a  word  the  Indian  spoke, 
But  his  wampum  chain  he  broke, 
And  the  beaded  wonder  hung 
On  that  neck  so  fair  and  young. 

Silence-shod,  as  phantoms  seem 
In  the  marches  of  a  dream, 
Single-filed,  the  grim  array 
Through  the  pine-trees  wound  away. 

Doubting,  trembling,  sore  amazed, 
Through   her  tears    the    young  child 

gazed. 

*'  God  preserve  her  !  "  Waldron  said ; 
•'  Satan  hath  bewitched  the  maid  ?  " 

Years  went  and  came.    At  close  of  day 
Singing  came  a  child  from  play, 
Tossing  from  her  loose-locked  head 
Gold  in  sunshine,  brown  in  shade. 

Pride  was  in  the  mother's  look, 
But  her  head  she  gravely  shook, 
And  with  lips  that  fondly  smiled 
Feigned  to  chide  her  truant  child. 

Unabashed,  the  maid  began  : 
"  Up  and  down  the  brook  I  ran, 
Where,  beneath  the  bank  so  steep, 
Lie  the  spotted  trout  asleep. 

"'  Chip  ! '  went  squirrel  on  the  wall, 
After  me  I  heard  him  call, 
And  the  cat-bird  on  the  tree 
Tried  his  best  to  mimic  me. 

"  Where  the  hemlocks  grew  so  dark 
That  I  stopped  to  look  and  hark, 
On  a  log,  with  feather-hat, 
By  the  path,  an  Indian  sat. 

"  Then  I  cried,  and  ran  away  ; 
But  he  called,  and  bade  me  stay ; 
And  his  voice  was  good  and  mild 
As  my  mother's  to  her  child. 

"  And  he  took  my  wampum  chain, 
Looked  and  looked  it  o'er  again  ; 
Gave  me  berries,  and,  beside, 
On  my  neck  a  plaything  tied." 

Straight  the  mother  stooped  to  see 
What  the  Indian's  gift  might  be. 
On  the  braid  of  wampum  hung, 
Lo  !  a  cross  of  silver  swung. 


Well  she  knew  its  graven  sign, 
Squando's  bird  and  totem  pine  ; 
And,  a  mirage  of  the  brain, 
Flowed  her  childhood  back  again. 

Flashed  the  roof  the  sunshine  through, 
Into  space  the  walls  outgrew  ; 
On  the  Indian's  wigwam-mat, 
Blossom-crowned,  again  she  sat. 

Cool  she  felt  the  west-wind  blow, 
In  her  ear  the  pines  sang  low, 
And,  like  links  from  out  a  chain, 
Dropped  the  years  of  care  and  pain. 

From  the  outward  toil  and  din, 
From  the  griefs  that  gnaw  within, 
To  the  freedom  of  the  woods 
Called  the  birds,  and  winds,  and  floods. 

Well,  O  painful  minister  ! 

Watch  thy  flock,  but  blame  not  her, 

If  her  ear  grew  sharp  to  hear 

All  their  voices  whispering  near.        . 

Blame  her  not,  as  to  her  soul 
All  the  desert's  glamour  stole, 
That  a  tear  for  childhood's  loss 
Dropped  upon  the  Indian's  cross. 

When,  that  night,  the  Book  was  read, 
And  she  bowed  her  widowed  head, 
And  a  prayer  for  each  loved  name 
Rose  like  incense  from  a  flame, 

To  the  listening  ear  of  Heaven, 
Lo  !  another  name  was  given  : 
"  Father,  give  the  Indian  rest  ! 
Bless  him  !  for  his  love  has  blest !  '* 


MY  PLAYMATE. 

THE  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low  ; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear  ; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 


HOME  BALLADS. 


For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 
My  playmate  left  her  home, 

And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 
She  laid  her  hand  in  mine  : 

What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 
Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May : 
The  constant  years  told  o'er 

Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 
But  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years ; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow  ; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown,  — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 
The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 

And  still   the  May-day  flowers  make 

sweet 
The  woods  of  Follymill. 


The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 
The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 

The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 
The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems.  — 

If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice  : 

Does  she  remember  mine? 
And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 
For  other  eyes  than  ours, — 

That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 
And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time  ! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow  ; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea, — 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee  ! 


POEMS    AND    LYRICS. 


POEMS   AND    LYRICS. 


THE  SHADOW  AND  THE 
LIGHT. 

"  And  t  sought,  whence  is  Evil  :  I  set  be 
fore  the  eye  of  my  spirit  the  whole  creation  ; 
whatsoever  we  see  therein,  —  sea,  earth,  air, 
stars,  trees,  moral  creatures,  —  yea,  whatso- 
jver  there  is  wedonotsee,—  angels  and  spir 
itual  powers.  Where  is  evil,  and  whence 
:omes  it,  since  God  the  Good  hath  created 
ill  things?  Why  made  lie  anything  at  all 
3f  evil,  and  not  rather  by  His  Allmighti- 
ness  cause  it  not  to  be  ?  These  thoughts  I 
turned  in  my  miserable  heart,  overcharged 
with  most  gnawing  cares."  "  And,  admon 
ished  to  return  to  myself,  I  entered  even 
into  my  inmost  soul,  Thou  being  my  guide, 
ind  beheld  even  beyond  my  soul  and  mind 
the  Light  unchangeable.  He  who  knows 
;he  Truth  knows  what  that  Light  is,  and  he 
that  knows  it  knows  Eternity!  O  Truth, 
who  art  Eternity!  Love,  who  art  Truth! 
Eternity,  who  art  Love!  And  I  beheld 
that  Thou  madest  all  things  good,  and  to 
Thee  is  nothing  whatsoever  evil.  From 
the  angel  to  the  worm,  from  the  first  motion 
to  the  last,  Thou  settest  each  in  its  place, 
ind  everything  is  good  in  its  kind.  Woe  is 
me!  — hoV  high  art  Thou  in  the  highest, 
how  deep  in  the  deepest!  and  Thou  never 
:lepnrtest  from  us  and  we  scarcely  return 
to  Thee." — Augustine's  /Soliloquies,  Book 
VII. 

THE  fourteen  centuries  fall  away 

Between  us  and  the  Afric  saint, 
And  at  his  side  we  urge,  to-day, 
The  immemorial  quest  and   old   com 
plaint. 

No  outward  sign  to  us  is  given,  — 

From  sea  or  earth  comes  no  reply  ; 
Hushedasthewarm  Numidian heaven 
He  vainly  questioned  bends  our  frozen 
sky. 

No  victory  comes  of  all  our  strife,  — 
From  all  weeraspthe  meaning;  slips : 


The  Sphinx  sits  at  the  gate  of  life, 
With  the   old  question  on  her  awful 
lips. 

In  paths  unknown  we  hear  the  feet 

.    Of  fear  before,  and  guilt  behind  ; 

We  pluck  the  wayside  fruit,  and  eat 

Ashes  and  dust  beneath  its  golden  rind. 

From  age  to  age  descends  unchecked 

The  sad  bequest  of  sire  to  son, 
The  body'staint,  the  mind's  defect,  — 
Through  every  web  of  life   the   dark 
threads  run. 

O,  why  and  whither? — God  knows 

all; 

I  only  know  that  he  is  good, 
And  that  whatever  may  befall 
Or  here  or  there,  must  be  the  best  that 
could. 

Between  the  dreadful  cherubim 
A  Father's  face  I  still  discern, 
As  Moses  looked  of  old  on  him, 
And  saw  his  glory  into  goodness  turn  ! 

For  he  is  merciful  as  just ; 

And  so,  by  faith  correcting  sight, 
I  bow  before  his  will,  and  trust 
Howe'er  they  seem  he  doeth  all  things 
right. 

And  dare  to  hope  that  he  will  make 
The  rugged  smooth,  the  doubtful 

plain  ; 

His  mercy  never  quite  forsake  ;  ^ 
His  healing  visit  every  realm  of  pain  ; 

That  suffering  is  not  his  revenge 
Upon  his  creatures  weak  and  frail- 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


Sent  on  a  pathway  new  and  strange 
With  feet  that  wander  and  with  eyes 
that  fail ; 

That,  o'er  the  crucible  of  pain, 

Watches  the  tender  eye  of  Love 
The  slow  transmuting  of  the  chain 
Whose  links  are  iron  below  to  gold 
above ! 

Ah  me  !  we  doubt  the  shining  skies, 

Seen  through  our  shadows  ofoffence, 

And  drown  withourpoorchildish  cries 

The  cradle-hymn  of  kindly  Providence. 

And  still  we  love  the  evil  cause, 

And  of  the  just  effect  complain  ; 
We  tread  upon  life's  broken  laws, 
And  murmur  at  our  self-inflicted  pain  ; 

We  turn  us  from  the  light,  and  find 
Our    spectral    shapes    before    us 

thrown, 

As  they  who  leave  the  sun  behind 
Walk  in   the   shadows   of  themselves 
alone. 

And  scarce  by  will  or  strength  of  ours 

We  set  our  faces  to  the  day  ; 
Weak,  wavering,   blind,  the  Eternal 

Powers 
Alone  can  turn  us  from  ourselves  away. 

Our  weakness  is  the  strength  of  sin, 

But  love  must  needs  be  stronger  far, 
Outreaching  all  and  gathering'in 
The  erring  spirit  and  the   wandering 
star. 

A  Voice  grows  with  the  growing  years ; 

Earth,  hushing  down  her  bitter  cry, 

Looks  upward  from  her  graves,  and 

hears, 
"  The  Resurrection  and  the  Life  am  I." 

O   Love  Divine  !  —  whose  constant 

beam 

Shines  on  the  eyes  that  will  not  see, 
And  waits  to  bless  us,  while  we  dream 
Thou  leavest  us  because  we  turn  from 
thee  ! 

All  souls  that  struggle  and  aspire, 
All  hearts  of  prayer  by  thee  are  lit ; 


And,  dim  or  clear,  thy  tongues  of  fire 
On  dusky  tribes  and  twilight  centuries 
sit. 

Nor  bounds,  nor  clime,  nor  creed  thou 

know'st, 

Wide  as  our  need  thy  favors  fall  ; 
The  white  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
Stoop,  seen  or  unseen,  o'er  the  heads 
of  all. 

O  Beauty,  old  yet  ever  new  !  67 

Eternal  Voice,  and  Inward  Word, 
The  Logos  of  the  Greek  and  Jew, 
Theold  sphere-music  which  the  Samian 
heard ! 

Truth  which  the  sage  and  prophet 

saw, 
Long   sought  without,   but  found 

within, 

The  Law  of  Love  beyond  all  law, 
The  Life  o'erflooding  mortal  death  and 
sin  ! 

Shine  on  us   with    the  light  whic'  t 

glowed 
Upon  the  trance-bound  shepherd1  < 

way, 

Who  saw  the  Darkness  overflowed 
And  drowned   by  tides   of  everlastin  t 
Day.68 

Shine,  light  of  God  !  —  make  broajl 

thy  scope 

To  all  who  sin  and  suffer  ;  more 
And  better  than  we  dare  to  hope 
With  Heaven's  compassion  make  our 
longings  poor  ! 


THE  GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS. 

TRITEMIUS  OF  HERBIPOLIS,  one  day, 
While  kneeling  at  the   altar's  foot   to 

pray, 

Alone  with  God,  as  was  his  pious  choice, 
Heard  from  without  a  miserable  voice, 
A  sound  which  seemed  of  all  sad  things 

to  tell, 
As  of  a  lost  soul  crying  out  of  hell. 


THE  EVE   OF  ELECTION. 


289 


Thereat  the  Abbot  paused  ;  the  chain 

whereby 
His  thoughts  went  upward  broken  by 

that  cry  ; 
And,   looking   from  the  casement,  saw 

below 
A  wretched  woman,   with    gray    hair 

a-flow, 
And  withered  hands  held  up  to   him, 

who  cried 
For  alms  as   one   who  might  not  be 

denied. 

She  cried,  "  For  the  dear  love  of  Him 
who  gave 

His  life  for  ours,  my  child  from  bond 
age  save,  — 

My  beautiful,  brave  first-born,  chained 
with  slaves 

In  the  Moor's  galley,  where  the  sun- 
smit  waves 

Lap  the  white  walls  of  Tunis!"  — 
"  What  I  can 

I  give,"  Tritemius  said:  "my  prayers." 
—  "  O  man 

Of  God  !  "  she  cried,  for  grief  had  made 
her  bold, 

"  Mock  me  not  thus ;  I  ask  not  prayers, 
but  gold. 

Words  will  not  serve  rne,  alms  alone 
suffice ; 

Even  while  I  speak  perchance  my  first 
born  dies." 

"Woman!"  Tritemius  answered,  "from 

our  door 
None  go  unfed  ;  hence  are  we  always 

poor: 

A  single  soldo  is  our  only  store. 
Thou  hast  our  prayers  ;  —  what  can  we 

give  thee  more  ? " 

"Give  me,"  she  said,  "the  silver  can 
dlesticks 

On  either  side  of  the  great  crucifix. 

God  well  may  spare  them  on  h  js  errands 
sped, 

Or  he  can  give  you  golden  ones  instead. " 

Then  spake   Tritemius,  "  Even  as  thy 

word, 
Woman,  so  be  it !    (Our  most  gracious 

Lord, 

IQ 


Who  loveth  mercy  more  than  sacrifice, 
Pardon  me  if  a  human  soul  I  prize 
Above  the  gifts  upon  his  altar  piled  !) 
Take  what  thou  askest,  and  redeem  thy 
child." 

But  his  hand  trembled  as  the  holy  alms 
He  placed  within  the  beggar's  eager 

palms  ; 
And  as  she  vanished  down  the  linden 

shade, 
He  bowed  his  head  and  for  forgiveness 

prayed. 

So  the  day  passed,  and  when  the  twi 
light  came 

He  woke  to  find  the  chapel  all  aflame, 

And,  dumb  with  grateful  wonder,  to 
behold 

Upon  the  altar  candlesticks  of  gold  ! 


THE  EVE  OF  'ELECTION. 

FROM  gold  to  gray 

Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  Summer  fades  too  soon  ; 

But  tenderly 

Above  the  sea 

Hangs,  white  and  calm,  the  hunter's 
moon. 

In  its  pale  fire, 

The  village  spire 
Shows  like  the  zodiac's  spectral  lance  ; 

The  painted  walls 

Whereon  it  falls 
Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance  ! 

O'er  fallen  leaves 

The  west-wind  grieves, 
Yet  comes  a  seed-time  round  again  ; 

And  morn  shall  see 

The  State  sown  free 
With  baleful  tares  or  healthful  grain. 

Along  the  street 

The  shadows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose  hands  conceal 

The  moulds  of  fate 

That  shape  the  State, 
And  make  or  mar  the  common  weal. 


ago 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


Around  I  see 

The  powers  that  be  ; 
I  stand  by  Empire's  primal  springs; 

And  princes  meet 

In  every  street, 
And  hear  the  tread  of  uncrowned  kings  ! 

Hark  !  through  the  crowd 

The  laugh  runs  loud, 
Beneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

God  save  the  land 

A  careless  hand 
May  shake  or  swerve  ere  morrow's  noon ! 

No  jest  is  this ; 

One  cast  amiss 
May  blast  the  hope  of  Freedom's  year. 

O,  take  me  where 

Are  hearts  of  prayer, 
And  foreheads  bowed  in  reverent  fear  ! 

Not  lightly  fall 

Beyond  recall 
The  written  scrolls  a  breath  can  float  ; 

The  crowing  fact 

The  kingliest  act 
Of  Freedom  is  the  freeman's  vote  ! 

For  pearls  that  gem 

A  diadem 
The  diver  in  the  deep  sea  dies ; 

The  regal  right 

We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sacrifice ; 

The  blood  of  Vane, 

His  prison  pain 
Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim  trod, 

And  hers  whose  faith 

Prew  strength  from  death, 
And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God  ! 

Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 
A  right  which  brave  men  died  to  gain  ; 

The  stake,  the  cord, 

The  axe,  the  sword, 
prim  nurses  at  its  birth  of  pain. 


The.  shadow  rend, 
And  o'er  iis  bend, 


0     martyrs,    wit})    ypu£    crowns    and 
palms,'-—  ~1 


Breathe  through  these  throngs 
Your  battle  songs, 

Your  scaffold   prayers,    and    dungeon 
psalms  ! 

Look  from  the  sky, 

Like  God's  great  eye, 
Thou    solemn    moon,   with    searching 
beam  ; 

Till  in  the  sight 

Of  thy  pure  light 
Our  mean  self-seekings  meaner  seem. 

Shame  from  our  hearts 
Unworthy  arts, 

The  fraud  designed,  the  purpose  dark; 
And  smite  away 


The  hands  we  la 
Profanely  on  the  sacrei 


S'ark. 


To  party  claims 

And  private  aims, 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 

Of  sovereign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done, 

And  strike  the  key 

Of  time  to  be, 
When  God  and  man  shall  speak  as  one ! 


THE  OVER-HEART. 

"For  of  Him,  and  through  Him,  and  to 
Him  are  all  things,  to  whom  be  glory  for* 
ever!"  — PAUL. 

ABOVE,  below,  in  sky  and  sod, 
In  leaf  and  spar,  in  star  and  man, 
Well  might  the  wise  Athenian  scan 

The  geometric  signs  of  God, 
The  measured  order  of  his  plan. 

And  India's  mystics  sang  aright 
Of  the  One  Life  pervading  all,  — 
One  Being's  tidal  rise  and  fall_ 

Jn  soul  and  form,  in  sound  and  sight,  — 
Eternal  outflow  and  recall. 


IN  REMEMBRANCE   OF  JOSEPH  STURGE. 


291 


God  is :  and  man  in  guilt  and  fear 
The  central  fact  of  Nature  owns  ;  — 
Kneels,  trembling,  by  his  altar-stones, 

And  darkly  dreams  the  ghastly  smear 
Of  blood  appeases  and  atones. 

Guilt  shapes  the  Terror  :  deep  within 
The  human  heart  the  secret  lies 
Of  all  the  hideous  deities  ; 

And,  painted  on  a  ground  of  sin, 
The  fabled  gods  of  torment  rise  ! 

And  what  is  He? — The  ripe  grain  nods, 
The  sweet  dews  fall,  the  sweet  flowers 

blow; 
But  darker  signs  his  pi-esence  show  : 

The  earthquake  and  the  storm  are  God's, 
And  good  and  evil  interflow. 

O  hearts  of  love  !  O  souls  that  turn 
Like  sunflowers  to  the  pure  and  best ! 
To  you  the  truth  is  manifest : 

For  they  the  mind  of  Christ  discern 
Who  lean  like  John  upon  his  breast ! 

]>i  him  of  whom  the  sibyl  told, 
For  whom   the   prophet's  harp  was 

toned, 
Whose  need  the   sage   and  magian 

owned, 

The  loving  heart  of  God  behold, 
The  hope  for  which  the  ages  groaned  ! 

Fade,  pomp  of  dreadful  imagery 
Wherewith  mankind  have  deified 
Their  hate,  and  selfishness,  and  pride ! 

Let  the  scared  dreamer  wake  to  see 
The  Christ  of  Nazareth  at  his  side  ! 

What  doth  that  holy  Guide  require  ?  — 
No  rite  of  pain,  nor  gift  of  blood, 
But  man  a  kindly  brotherhood, 

Looking,  where  duty  is  desire, 
To  him,  the  beautiful  and  good. 

Gone  be  the  faithlessness  of  fear, 
And  let  the  pitying  heaven's  sweet 

rain 
Wash  out  the  altar's  bloody  stain  ; 

The  law  of  Hatred  disappear, 
The  law  of  Love  alone  remain. 

How  fall  the  idols  false  and  grim  !  — 
And  lo  !  their  hideous  wreck  above 


The  emblems  of  the  Lamb  and  Dove  ! 

Man  turns  from  God,  not  God  from  him  ; 

And  guilt,  in  suffering,  whispers  Love  ! 

The  world  sits  at  the  feet  of  Christ, 
Unknowing,  blind,  and  unconsoled  ; 
It  yet  shall  touch  his  garment's  fold, 

And  feel  the  heavenly  Alchemist 
Transform  its  very  dust  to  gold. 

The  theme  befitting  angel  tongues 

Beyond  a  mortal's  scope  has  grown. 
O  heart  of  mine  !  with  reverence  own 
The  fulness  which  to  it  belongs, 

And  trust  the  unknown  for  the  known. 


IN     REMEMBRANCE     OF     JO 
SEPH     STURGE. 

IN  the  fair  land  o'erwatched  by  Ischia'» 

mountains, 

Across  the  charmed  bay 
Whose  blue  waves  keep  with  Capri's 

silver  fountains 
Perpetual  holiday, 

A  king  lies  dead,  his  wafer  duly  eaten, 
His  gold-bought  masses  given  ; 

And  Rome's  great  altar  smokes  with 

gums  to  sweeten 
Her  foulest  gift  to  Heaven. 

And  while  all  Naples  thrills  with  mute 

thanksgiving, 

The  court  of  England's  queen 
For  the  dead  monster  so  abhorred  while 

living 
In  mourning  garb  is  seen. 

With  a  true  sorrow  God  rebukes  that 

feigning  ; 

By  lone  Edgbaston's  side 
Stands  a  great  city  in  the   sky's  sad 

raining, 
Bare-headed  and  wet-eyed  ! 

Silent  for  once  the  restless  hive  of  labor, 
Save  the  low  funeral  tread, 

Or  voice  of  craftsman  whispering  to  his 

neighbor 
The  good  deeds  of  the  dead. 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


For  him  no  minster's  chant  of  the  im 
mortals 

Rose  from  the  lips  of  sin  ; 
No  mitred  priest  swung  back  the  heav 
enly  portals 
To  let  the  white  soul  in. 

But  Age  and  Sickness  framed  their  tear 
ful  faces 

In  the  low  hovel's  door, 
And  prayers  went  up  from  all  the  dark 

by-places 
And  Ghettos  of  the  poor. 

The  pallid  toiler  and  the  negro  chattel, 
The  vagrant  of  the  street, 

The  human  dice  wherewith  in  games 

of  battle 
The  lords  of  earth  compete, 

Touched  with  a  grief  that  needs  no  out 
ward  draping, 

All  swelled  the  long  lament, 
Of  grateful  hearts,  instead  of  marble, 

shaping 
His  viewless  monument ! 

For  never  yet,  with  ritual  pomp   and 

splendor, 

In  the  long  heretofore, 
A  heart  more  loyal,  warm,  and  true, 

and  tender, 
Has  England's  turf  closed  o'er. 

And  if  there  fell  from  out  her  grand  old 

steeples 

No  crash  of  brazen  wail, 
The    murmurous    woe     of    kindreds, 

tongues,  and  peoples 
Swept  in  on  every  gale. 

It  came  from  Holstein's  birchen-belted 

meadows, 

And  from  the  tropic  calms 
Of  Indian  islands  in  the  sun-smit  shad 
ows 
Of  Occidental  palms  ; 

From   the   locked    roadsteads    of  the 

Bothuian  peasants, 
And  harbors  of  the  Finn, 
Where  war's  worn  victims  saw  his  gen 
tle  presence 
Come  sailing,  Christ-like,  in, 


To  seek  the  lost,   to  build    the    old 

waste  places, 
To  link  the  hostile  shores 
Of  severing  seas,  and  sow  with   Eng 
land's  daisies 
The  moss  of  Finland's  moors. 

Thanks  for  the  good   man's  beautiful 
example, 

Who  in  the  vilest  saw 
Some  sacred  crypt  or  altar  of  a  temple 

Still  vocal  with  God's  law  ; 

And  heard  with  tender  ear  the   spirit 

sighing 

As  from  its  prison  cell, 
Praying  for  pity,  like  the  mournful  cry 
ing 
Of  Jonah  out  of  hell. 

Not  his  the  golden  pen's  or  lip's  per 
suasion, 

But  a  fine  sense  of  right, 
And  Truth's  directness,  meeting  each 

occasion 
Straight  as  a  line  of  light. 

His  faith  and  works,  like  streams  that 

intermingle, 

In  the  same  channel  ran  : 
The  crystal  clearness  of  an   eye  kept 

single 
Shamed  all  the  frauds  of  man. 

The  very  gentlest  of  all  human  natures 
He  joined  to  courage  strong, 

And  love  outreaching  unto  all    God's 

creatures 
With  sturdy  hate  of  wrong. 

Tender    as    woman ;     manliness    and 

meekness 

In  him  were  so  allied 
That   they  who    judged    him    by  his 

strength  o_r  weakness 
Saw  but  a  single  side. 

Men  failed,  betrayed  him,  but  his  zeal 

seemed  nourished 
By  failure  and  by  fall ; 
Still  a  large   faith   in   human-kind  he  ; 

cherished, 
And  in  God's  love  for  all- 


TRINITAS. 


293 


And  now  he  rests  :  his  greatness  and 

his  sweetness 

No  more  shall  seem  at  strife  ; 
And  death  has  moulded  into  calm  com 
pleteness 
The  statue  of  his  life. 

Where  the  dews  glisten  and  the  song 
birds  warble, 
His  dust  to  dust  is  laid, 
In  Nature's  keeping,  with  no  pomp  of 

marble 
To  shame  his  modest  shade. 

The  forges  glow,  the  hammers  all  are 

ringing; 

Beneath  its  smoky  vale, 
Hard  by,  the  city  of  his  love  is  swing 
ing 
Its  clamorous  iron  flail. 

But  round  his  grave  are  quietude  and 
beauty, 

And  the  sweet  heaven  above,  — 
The  fitting  symbols  of  a  life  of  duty 

Transfigured  into  love ! 


TRINITAS. 

AT  morn  I  prayed,  "  I  fain  would  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is  Three  ; 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me." 

I  wandered  forth,  the  sun  and  air 
I  saw  bestowed  with  equal  care 
On  good  and  evil,  foul  and  fair. 

No  partial  favor  dropped  the  rain  ;  — 
Alike  the  righteous  and  profane 
Rejoiced  above  their  heading  grain. 

And  my  heart  murmured,  "  Is  it  meet 
That  blindfold  Nature  thus  should  treat 
With  equal  hand  the  tares  and  wheat  ?  " 

A  presence  melted  through  my  mood, — 
A  warmth,  a  light,  a  sense  of  good, 
Like  sunshine  through  a  winter  wood. 

I  saw  that  presence,  mailed  complete 
In  her  white  innocence,  pause  to  greet 
A  fallen  sister  of  the  street. 


Upon  her  bosom  snowy  pure 
The  lost  one  clung,  as  if  secure 
From  inward  guilt  or  outward  lure. 

"  Beware  !  "  I  said  ;  "  in  this  I  see 
No  gain  to  her,  but  loss  to  thee  : 
Who  touches  pitch  defiled  must  be." 

I  passed  the  haunts  of  shame  and  sin, 
And  a  voice  whispered,  "  Who  therein 
Shall   these    lost    souls  to    Heaven's 
peace  win  ? 

"  Who  there  shall  hope  and  health  dis 
pense, 

And  lift  the  ladder  up  from  thence 
Whose   rounds   are    prayers   of   peni 
tence  ?" 

I  said,  "  No  higher  life  they  know  ; 
These  earth-worms  love  to  have  it  so. 
Who  stoops  to  raise  themsinksaslow." 

That  night  with  painful  care  I  read 
What  Hippo's  saint  and  Calvin  said, — 
The  living  seeking  to  the  dead  ! 

In  vain  I  turned,  in  weary  quest, 
Old  pages,  where  (God  give  them  rest !) 
The  poor  creed-mongers  dreamed  and 
guessed. 

And  still  I  prayed,  "  Lord,  let  me  see 
How    Three    are    One,    and    One    is 

Three  ; 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me  !  " 

Then  something  whispered,  "Dostthou 

pray 

For  what  thou  hast  ?    This  very  day 
The  Holy  Three  have  crossed  thy  way. 

"  Did  not  the  gifts  of  sun  and  air 

To  good  and  ill  alike  declare 

The  all-compassionate  Father's  care  ? 

"In   the  white   soul  that  stooped  to 

raise 

The  lost  one  from  her  evil  ways, 
Thou  saw'st  the  Christ,  whom  angels 

praise  ! 

"  A  bodiless  Divinity, 

The  still  small  Voice  that  spake  to  thee 

Was  the  Holy  Spirit's  mystery  ! 


294 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


"O  blind  of  sight,  of  faith  how  small! 
Father,  and  Son,  and  Holy  Call ;  — 
This  day  thou  hast  denied  them  all  ! 

"  Revealed  in  love  and  sacrifice, 
The  Holiest  passed  before  thine  eyes, 
One  and  the  same,  in  threefold  guise. 

"  The  equal  Father  in  rain  and  sun, 
His  Christ  in  the  good  to  evil  done, 
His  Voice  in  thy  soul ;  —  and  the  Three 
are  One  ! " 

I  shut  my  grave  Aquinas  fast ; 
The  monkish  gloss  of  ages  past, 
The  schoolman's  creed  aside  I  cast. 

And  my  heart  answered,  "  Lord,  I  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is  Three  ; 
Thy  riddle  hath  been  read  to  me  !  " 


THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND. 

OUR  vales  are  sweet  with  fern  and  rose, 
Our  hills  are  maple-crowned  ; 

But  not  from  them  our  fathers  chose 
The  village  burying-ground. 

The  dreariest  spot  in  all  the  land 

To  Death  they  set  apart ; 
With  scanty  grace  from  Nature's  hand, 

And  none  from  that  of  Art. 

A  winding  wall  of  mossy  stone, 
Frost-flung  and  broken,  lines 

A  lonesome  acre  thinly  grown 
With  grass  and  wandering  vines. 

Without  the  wall  a  birch-tree  shows 
Its  drooped  and  tasselled  head  ; 

Within,  a  stag-horned  sumach  grows, 
Fern-leafed,  with  spikes  of  red. 

There,  sheep  that  graze  the  neighbor 
ing  plain 

Like  white  ghosts  come  and  go, 
The  farm-horse  drags  his  fetlock  chain, 

The  cow-bell  tinkles  slow. 

Low  moans  the  river  from  its  bed, 

The  distant  pines  reply  ; 
Like  mourners  shrinking  from  the  dead, 

They  stand  apart  and  sigh. 


Unshaded  smites  the  summer  sun, 
Unchecked  the  winter  blast ; 

The  school-girl  learns  the  place  to  shun, 
With  glances  backward  cast. 

For  thus  our  fathers  testified,  — 
That  he  might  read  who  ran,  — 

The  emptiness  of  human  pride, 
The  nothingness  of  man. 

They  dared  not  plant  the  grave  with 
flowers, 

Nor  dress  the  funeral  sod, 
Where,  with  a  love  as  deep  as  ours, 

They  left  their  dead  with  God. 

The  hard  and  thorny  path  they  kept 

From  beauty  turned  aside  ; 
Nor  missed  they  over  those  who  slept 

The  grace  to  life  denied. 

Yet  still    the    wilding    flowers  would 
blow, 

The  golden  leaves  would  fall, 
The  seasons  come,  the  seasons  go, 

And  God  be  good  to  all. 

Above  the  graves  the  blackberry  hung 
In  bloom  and  green  its  wreath, 

And  harebells  swung  as  if  they  rung 
The  chimes  of  peace  beneath. 

The  beauty  Nature  loves  to  share, 

The  gilts  she  hath  for  all, 
The  common  light,  the  common  air, 

O'ercrept  the  graveyard's  wall. 

It  knew  the  glow  of  eventide, 

The  sunrise  and  the  noon, 
And  glorified  and  sanctified 

It  slept  beneath  the  moon. 

With  flowers  or  snow-flakes  for  its  sod, 

Around  the  seasons  ran, 
And  evermore  the  love  of  God 

Rebuked  the  fear  of  man. 

We  dwell  with  fears  on  either  hand, 

Within  a  daily  strife, 
And  spectral  problems  waiting  stand 

Before  the  gates  of  life. 

The  doubts  we  vainly  seek  to  solve, 
The  truths  we  know,  are  one  ; 


THE   PIPES  AT  LUCK  NOW. 


295 


The  known  and  nameless  stars  revolve 
Around  the  Central  Sun. 

And  if  we  reap  as  we  have  sown, 

And  take  the  dole  we  deal, 
The  law  of  pain  is  love  alone, 

The  wounding  is  to  heal. 

Unharmed  from  change  to  change  we 
glide, 

We  fall  as  in  our  dreams  ; 
The  far-off  terror  at  our  side 

A  smiling  angel  seems. 

Secure  on  God's  all-tender  heart 

Alike  rest  great  and  small ; 
Why  fear  to  lose  our  little  part, 

When  he  is  pledged  for  all? 

O  fearful  heart  and  troubled  brain  ! 

Take  hope  and  strength  from  this,  — 
That  Nature  never  hints  in  vain, 

Nor  prophesies  amiss. 

Her  wild  birds  sing  the   same   sweet 
stave, 

Her  lights  and  airs  are  given 
Alike  to  playground  and  the  grave  ; 

And  over  both  is  Heaven. 


THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW. 

PIPES  of  the  misty  moorlands, 

Voice  of  the  glens  and  hills  ; 
The  droning  of  the  torrents, 

The  treble  of  the  rills! 
Not  the  braes  of  broom  and  heather, 

Nor  the  mountains  dark  with  rain, 
Nor  maiden  bower,  nor  border  tower, 

Have  heard  your  sweetest  strain  I 

Dear  to  the  Lowland  reaper, 

And  plaided  mountaineer,  — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  Scottish  pipes  are  dear  ;  — 
Sweet  sounds  the  ancient  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  loch,  and  glade  ; 
Cut  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played. 

Day  by  day  the  Indian  tiger 
Louder  yelled,  and  nearer  crept ; 


Round  and  round  the  jungle-serpent 
Near  and  nearer  circles  swept. 

"  Pray  for  rescue,  wives  and  mothers,  — 
Pray  to-day  !  "  the  soldier  said  ; 

"  To-morrow,  death  's  between  us 
And  the  wrong  and  shame  we  dread." 

O,  they  listened,  looked,  and  waited, 

Till  their  hope  became  despair  ; 
And  the  sobs  of  low  bewailing 

Filled  the  pauses  of  their  prayer. 
Then  up  spake  a  Scottish  maiden, 

With  her  ear  unto  the  ground  : 
"  Dinna  ye  hear  it  ?  —  dinna  ye  hear  it  ? 

The  pipes  o'  Havelock  sound  !  " 

Hushed  the  wounded  man  his  groan 
ing  ; 

Hushed  the  wife  her  little  ones  ; 
Alone  they  heard  the  drum-roll 

And  the  roar  of  Sepoy  guns. 
But  to  sounds  of  home  and  childhood 

The  Highland  ear  was  true  ;  — 
As  her  mother's  cradle-crooning 

The  mountain  pipes  she  knew. 

Like  the  march  of  soundless  music 

Through  the  vision  of  the  seer, 
More  of  feeling  than  of  hearing, 

Of  the  heart  than  of  the  ear, 
She  knew  the  droning  pibroch, 

She  knew  the  Campbell's  call : 
"  Hark  !  hear  ye  no'  MacGregor's, — 

The  grandest  o'  them  all !  " 

O,  they  listened,  dumb  and  breathless, 

And  they  caught  the  sound  at  last ; 
Faint  and  far  beyond  the  Goomtee 

Rose  and  fell  the  piper's  blast ! 
Then  a  burst  of  wild  thanksgiving 

Mingled  woman's  voice  and  man's  ; 
"  God    be    praised  !  —  the    march    of 
Havelock  ! 

The  piping  of  the  clans  !  " 

Louder,  nearer,  fierce  as  vengeance, 

Sharp  and  shrill  as  swords  at  strife, 
Came  the  wild  MacGregor's  clan-call, 

Stinging  all  the  air  to  life. 
But  when  the  far-off  dust-cloud 

To  plaided  legions  grew, 
Full  tenderly  and  blithesomely 

The  pipes  of  rescue  blew  1 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


Round  the  silver  domes  of  Lucknow, 

Moslem  ir.osque  and  Pagan  shrine, 
Breathed  the  air  to  Britons  dearest, 

The  air  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 
O'er  the  cruel  roll  of  war-drums 

Rose  that  sweet  and  homelike  strain  ; 
And  the  tartan  clove  the  turban, 

As  the  Goomtee  cleaves  the  plain. 

Dear  to  the  corn-land  reaper 

And  plaided  mountaineer, — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  piper's  song  is  dear. 
Sweet  sounds  the  Gaelic  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  glen,  and  glade  ; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played  ! 


MY  PSALM. 

I  MOURN  no  more  my  vanished  years  : 

Beneath  a  tender  rain, 
An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tears, 

My  heart  is  young  again. 

The  west-winds  blow,  and,  singing  low, 
I  hear  the  glad  streams  run  ; 

The  windows  of  my  soul  I  throw 
Wide  open  to  the  sun.         x 

No  longer  forward  nor  behind 

I  look  in  hope  or  fear ; 
But,  grateful,  take  the  good  I  find, 

The  best  of  now  and  here. 

I  plough  no  more  a  desert  land, 
To  harvest  weed  and  tare  ; 

The  manna  dropping  from  God's  hand 
Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

I  break  my  pilgrim  staff,  —  I  lay 

Aside  the  toiling  oay  ; 
The  angel  sought  so  far  away 

I  welcome  at  my  door. 

The  airs  of  spring  may  never  play 
Among  the  ripening  corn, 

Nor  freshness  of  the  flowers  of  May 
Blow  through  the  autumn  morn  ; 

Yet  shall  the  blue-eyed  gentian  look 
Through  fringe'd  lids  to  heaven, 


And  the  pale  aster  in  the  brook 
Shall  see  its  image  given  ;  — 

The  woods  shall  wear  their  robes  of 
praise, 

The  south-wind  softly  sigh, 
And  sweet,  calm  days  in  golden  haze 

Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Not  less  shall  manly  deed  and  word 
Rebuke  an  age  of  wrong  ; 

The  graven  flowers  that  wreathe  the 

sword 
Make  not  the  blade  less  strong. 

But  smiting  hands  shall  learn  to  heal,  — 

To  build  as  to  destroy  ; 
Nor  less  my  heart  for  others  feel 

That  I  the  more  enjoy. 

All  as  God  wills,  who  wisely  heeds 

To  give  or  to  withhold, 
And  knoweth  more  of  all  my  needs 

Than  all  my  prayers  have  told  ! 

Enough  that  blessings  undeserved 
Have  marked  my  erring  track  ;  — 

That  wheresoe'er  my  feet  have  swerved, 
His  chastening  turned  me  back  ;  — 

That  more  and  more  a  Providence 

Of  love  is  understood, 
Making  the  springs  of  time  and  sense 

Sweet  with  eternal  good  ;  — 

That  death  seems  but  a  covered  way 

Which  opens  into  light, 
Wherein  no  blinded  child  can  stray 

Beyond  the  Father's  sight;  — 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last,  ^ 
Through  Memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges  overpast, 
In  purple  distance  fair  ;  — 

That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 

And  all  the  angles  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west-winds  play ; 

And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart 
I  open  to  the  day. 


'THE  ROCK"  AV  EL    GHOR. 


297 


LE  MARAIS  DU  CYGNET 

A  BLUSH  as  of  roses 

Where  rose  never  grew  ! 
Great  drops  on  the  bunch-grass, 

But  not  of  the  dew  ! 
A  taint  in  the  sweet  air 

For  wild  bees  to  shun  ! 
A  stain  that  shall  never 

Bleach  out  in  the  sun  ! 

Back,  steed  of  the  prairies  ! 

Sweet  song-bird,  fly  back  ! 
Wheel  hither,  bald  vulture  ! 

Gray  wolf,  call  thy  pack  ! 
The  foul  human  vultures 

Have  feasted  and  fled  ; 
The  wolves  of  the  Border 

Have  crept  from  the  dead. 

From  the  hearths  of  their  cabins, 

The  fields  of  their  corn, 
Unwarned  and  unweaponed, 

The  victims  were  torn,  — 
By  the  whirlwind  of  murder 

Swooped  up  and  swept  on 
To  the  low,  reedy  fen -lands, 

The  Marsh  of  the  Swan. 

With  a  vain  plea  for  mercy 

No  stout  knee  was  crooked  ; 
In  the  mouths  of  the  rifles 

Right  manly  they  looked. 
How  paled  the  May  sunshine, 

O  Marais  du  Cygne  ! 
On  death  for  the  strong  life, 

On  red  grass  for  green  ! 

In  the  homes  of  their  rearing, 

Yet  warm  with  their  lives, 
Ye  wait  the  dead  only, 

Poor  children  and  wives  ! 
Put  out  the  red  forge-fire, 

The  smith  shall  not  come  ; 
Unyoke  the  brown  oxen, 

The  ploughman  lies  dumb. 

Wind  slow  from  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

O  dreary  death-train, 
With  pressed  lips  as  bloodless 

As  lips  of  the  slain  ! 
Kiss  down  the  young  eyelids, 

Smooth  down  the  gray  hairs ; 


Let  tears  quench  the  curses 
That  burn  through  your  prayers. 

Strong  man  of  the  prairies, 

Mourn  bitter  and  wild  ! 
Wail,  desolate  woman  ! 
.  Weep,  fatherless  child  ! 
But  the  grain  of  God  springs  up 

From  ashes  beneath, 
And  the  crown  of  his  harvest 

Is  life  out  of  death. 

Not  in  vain  on  the  dial 

The  shade  moves  along, 
To  point  the  great  contrasts 

Of  right  and  of  wrong: 
Free  homes  and  free  altars, 

Free  prairie  and  flood,  — 
The  reeds  of  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

Whose  bloom  is  of  blood  ! 

On  the  lintels  of  Kansas 

That  blood  shall  not  dry  ; 
Henceforth  the  Bad  Angel 

Shall  harmless  go  by  ; 
Henceforth  to  the  sunset, 

Unchecked  on  her  way, 
Shall  Liberty  follow 

The  march  of  the  day. 


"THE  ROCK"   IN   EL  GHOR. 

DEAD  Petra  in  her  hill-tomb  sleeps, 
Her  stones  of  emptiness  remain  ; 

Around  her  sculptured  mystery  sweeps 
The  lonely  waste  of  Edom's  plain. 

From  the  doomed  dwellers  in  the  cleft 
The   bow   of   vengeance   turns    not 
back; 

Of  all  her  myriads  none  are  left 
Along  the  Wady  Mousa's  track. 

Clear  in  the  hot  Arabian  day 

Her  arches  spring,  her  statues  climb  ; 
Unchanged,  the  graven  wonders  pay 

No  tribute  to  the  spoiler,  Time  ! 

Unchanged  the  awful  lithograph 
Of  power  and  glory  undertrod,  — 


298 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


Of  nations  scattered  like  the  chaff 
Blown    from   the    threshing-floor  of 
God. 

Yet  shall  the  thoughtful  stranger  turn 
From  Petra's  gates,  with  deeper  awe 

To  mark  afar  the  burial  urn 
Of  Aaron  on  the  cliffs  of  Hor  ; 

And  where  upon  its  ancient  guard 
Thy  Rock,  El  Ghor,  is  standing  yet,— 

Looks  from  its  turrets  desertward, 
And  keeps  the  watch  that  God  has 
set. 

The  same  as  when  in  thunders  loud 
It  heard  the  voice  of  God  to  man,  — 

As  when  it  saw  in  fire  and  cloud 
The  angels  walk  in  Israel's  van  I 

Or  when  from  Ezion-Geber's  way 
It  saw  the  long  procession  file, 

And  heard  the  Hebrew  timbrels  play 
The  music  of  the  lordly  Nile  ; 

Or  saw  the  tabernacle  pause, 

Cloud-bound,    by  Kadesh    Barnea's 
wells, 

While  Moses  graved  the  sacred  laws, 
And  Aaron  swung  his  golden  bells. 

Rock  of  the  desert,  prophet-sung  ! 

How  grew    its    shadowing    pile    at 

length, 
A  symbol,  in  the  Hebrew  tongue, 

Of  God's  eternal  love  and  strength. 

On  lip  of  bard  and  scroll  of  seer, 
From   age   to   age   went    down    the 
name, 

Until  the  Shiloh's  promised  year, 
And  Christ,  the  Rock  of  Ages,  came  ! 

The  path  of  life  we  walk  to-day 

Is  strange  as  that  the  Hebrews  trod  ; 

We  need  the  shadowing  rock,  as  they, — 
We   need,  like  them,  the  guides  of 
God. 

God  send  his  angels.  Cloud  and  Fire, 
To  lead  us  o'er  the  desert  sand  ! 

God  give  our  hearts  their  long  desire, 
His  shadow  in  a  weary  land  ! 


ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK, 

WITH    ITS    FRONTISPIECE,    ARY   SCHEF- 

FER'S  "  CHRISTUS  CONSOLATOR," 
AMERICANIZED  BY  THE  OMISSION 
OF  THE  BLACK  MAN. 

O  ARY  SCHEFFER  !  when  beneath  thine 

eye, 
Touched  with  the  light  that  cometh 

from  above, 
Grew  the  sweet  picture  of  the  dear 

Lord's  love, 
No   dream  hadst   thou  that  Christian 

hands  would  tear 

Therefrom  the  token  of  his  equal  care, 
And  make  thy  symbol  of  his  truth  a 

lie! 
The  poor,  dumb  slave  whose  shackles 

fall  away 
In  his  compassionate  gaze,  grubbed 

smoothly  out, 

To  mar  no  more  the  exercise  devout 
Of  sleek  oppression  kneeling  down  to 

pray 
Where  the  great  oriel  stains  the  Sabbath 

day! 

Let   whoso   can   before  such  praying- 
books 
Kneel  on  his  velvet  cushion  ;  I,  for 

one, 
Would  sooner  bow,  a  Parsee,  to  the 

sun, 
Or  tend  a   prayer-wheel   in   Thibetan 

brooks, 

Or  beat  a  drum  on  Yedo's  temple- 
floor. 

No  falser  idol  man  has  bowed  before, 
In  Indian  groves  or  islands  of  the  sea, 
Than  that  which  through  the  quaint- 
carved  Gothic  door 

Looks  forth,  —  a   Church  without  hu 
manity  ! 
Patron  of  pride,  and  prejudice,  and 

wrong,  — 
The  rich  man's  charm  and  fetish  of 

the  strong, 
The  Eternal   Fulness  meted,    clipped, 

and  shorn, 

The  seamless  robe  of  equal  mercy  torn, 
The  dear  Christ  hidden  from  his  kin 
dred  flesh, 
And,  in  his  poor  ones,  crucified  afresh  ! 


TO  J.    T.   F. 


299 


Better  the  simple  Lama  scattering  wide, 
Where  sweeps  the  storm  Alechan's 

steppes  along, 

His  paper  horses  for  the  lost  to  ride, 
And  wearying  Buddha  with  his  prayers 

to  make 
The  figures  living  for  the  traveller's 

sake, 
Than  he  who  hopes  with  cheap  praise 

to  beguile 
The  ear  of  God,  dishonoring  man  the 

while  ; 
Who  dreams  the  pearl   gate's  hinges, 

rusty  grown, 
Are  moved  by  flattery's  oil  of  tongue 

alone  ; 

That  in  the  scale  Eternal  Justice  bears 
The  generous  deed  weighs  less  than 

selfish  prayers, 

And  words  intoned  with  graceful  unc 
tion  move 
The  Eternal  Goodness  more  than  lives 

of  truth  and  love. 
Alas,    the    Church  !  —  The    reverend 

head  of  Jay, 
Enhaloed  with    its   saintly  silvered 

hair, 
Adorns   no  more   the  places  of  her 

prayer  ; 
And  brave  young  Tyng,  too  early  called 

away, 
Troubles  the    Haman  of  her  courts 

no  more 

Like  the  just  Hebrew  at  the  Assyri 
an's  door ; 
And  her  sweet  ritual,  beautiful  but 

dead 
As  the   dry  husk   from  which    the 

grain  is  shed. 
And  holy  hymns  from  which  the  life 

devout 
Of  saints  and  martyrs   has  wellnigh 

gone  out, 

Like  candles  dying  in  exhausted  air, 
For  Sabbath  use  in  measured  grists 

are  ground  ; 
And,  ever   while   the   spiritual   mill 

goes  round, 
Between   the   upper  and  the  nether 

stones, 

Unseen,  unheard,  the  wretched  bond 
man  groans, 

And  urges  his  vain  plea,  prayer-smoth 
ered,  anthem-drowned ! 


O  heart  of  mine,    keep  patience!  — 

Looking  forth, 

As  from  the  Mount  of  Vision,  I  be 
hold, 
Pure,  just,   and   free,   the   Church   of 

Christ  on  earth,  — 
The  martyr's  dream,  the  golden  age 

foretold  ! 
And  found,  at  last,  the  mystic  Graal  I 

see, 
Brimmed   with    His    blessing,    pass 

from  lip  to  lip 

Ii\  sacred  pledge  of  human  fellowship  ; 
And   over  all   the   songs  of   angels 

hear,  — 
Songs  of  the  love  that  casteth  out  all 

fear,  — 

Songs  of  the  Gospel  of  Humanity  ! 
Lo  !  in  the  midst,  with  the  same  look 

he  wore, 
Healing  and  blessing  on  Genesarct's 

shore, 
Folding  together,  with  the  all-tender 

might 
Of  his  great  love,  the  dark  hands  and 

the  white, 
Stands  the  Consoler,  soothing  every 

pain, 
Making  all  burdens  light,  and  breaking 

every  chain. 


TO  J.   T.   F. 

ON   A    BLANK  LEAF  OF  "  POEMS  PRINT 
ED,  NOT    PUBLISHED." 

WELL  thought  !  who  would  not  rather 

hear 
The   songs  to   Love   and    Friendship 

sung 
Than  those  which  move  the  stranger's 

tongue, 
And  feed  his  unselected  ear? 

Our  social  joys  are  more  than  fame  ; 
Life  withers  in  the  public  look. 
Why  mount  the  pillory  of  a  book, 
Or  barter  comfort  for  a  name  ? 

Who  in  a  house  of  glass  would  dwell, 
With  curious  eyes  at  every  pane  ? 
To  vine,'  him  in  and  out  again, 
Who  wants  the  public  crier's  bell  ? 


3oo 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


To  see  the  angel  in  one's  way, 
Who  waits  to  play  the  ass's  part,  — 
Bear  on  his  back  the  wizard  Art, 
And  in  his  service  speak  or  bray  ? 

And  who  his  manly  locks  would  shave, 
And  quench  the  eyes  of  common  sense, 
To  share  the  noisy  recompense 
That   mocked   the  shorn   and  blinded 
slave? 

The  heart  has  needs  beyond  the  head, 

And,  starving  in  the  plenitude 

Of  strange  gifts,   craves  its    common 

food,  — 
Our  human  nature's  daily  bread. 

We  are  but  men  :  no  gods  are  we, 
To  sit  in  mid-heaven,  cold  and  bleak, 
Each  separate,  on  his  painful  peak, 
Thin-cloaked  in  self-complacency  ! 

Better  his  lot  whose  axe  is  swung 
In  Wartburg  woods,  or  that  poor  girl's 
Who  by  the  1 1m  her  spindle  whirls 
And  sings  the  songs  that  Luther  sung, 

Than  his  who,  old,  and  cold,  and  vain, 
At  Weimar  sat,  a  demigod, 
And  bowed  with  Jove's  imperial  nod 
His  votaries  in  and  out  again  ! 

Ply,  Vanity,  thy  winged  feet ! 
Ambition,  hew  thy  rocky  stair  ! 
Who  envies  him  who  feeds  on  air 
The  icy  splendor  of  his  seat  ? 

I  see  your  Alps,  above  me,  cut 
The  dark,  cold  sky  ;  and  dim  and  lone 
I  see  ye  sitting,  — stone  on  stone, — 
With  human  senses  dulled  and  shut. 

I  could  not  reach  you,  if  I  would, 
Nor  sit  among  your  cloudy  shapes ; 
And  (spare  the  fable  of  the  grapes 
And  fox)  I  would  not  if  1  could. 

Keep  to  your  lofty  pedestals  ! 
The  safer  plain  below  I  choose  : 
Who  never  wins  can  rarely  lose, 
Who  never  climbs  as  rarely  falls. 

Let  such  as  love  the  eagle's  scream 
Divide  with  him  his  home  of  ice  : 


For  me  shall  gentler  notes  suffice,  — 
The  valley-song  of  bird  and  stream  ; 

The  pastoral  bleat,  the  drone  of  bees, 
The  Hail-beat  chiming  far  away, 
The  cattle-low,  at  shut  of  day, 
The  voice  of  God  in  leaf  and  breeze  ! 

Then  lend  thy  hand,  my  wiser  friend, 
And  help  me  to  the  vales  below, 
(In  truth,  I  have  not  far  to  go,) 
Where   sweet   with  flowers  the   fields 
extend. 


THE  PALM-TREE. 

Is  it  the  palm,  the  cocoa-palm, 

On    the    Indian    Sea,  by   the   isles   of 

balm? 
Or  is  it  a  ship  in  the  breezeless  calm? 

A  ship  whose  keel  is  of  palm  beneath, 
Whose  ribs  of  palm  have  a  palm-bark 

sheath, 
And  a  rudder  of  palm  it  steereth  with. 

Branches  of  palm  are  its  spars  and  rails, 
Fibres  of  palm  are  its  woven  sails, 
And  the  rope  is  of  palm  that  idly  trails ! 

What  does  the  good  ship  bear  so  well? 
The  cocoa-nut  with  its  stony  shell, 
And  the  milky  sap  of  its  inner  cell. 

What  are  its  jars,  so  smooth  and  fine, 
But  hollowed  nuts,  filled  with  oil  and 

wine, 
And  the  cabbage  that  ripens  under  the 

Line? 

Who   smokes   his   nargileh,   cool   and 

calm? 
The    master,  whose  cunning  and  skill 

could  charm 
Cargo   and   ship   from    the   bounteous 

palm. 

In  the   cabin   he   sits  on  a   palm-mat 

soft, 
From   a   beaker  of  palm   his  drink  is 

quaffed, 
And  a   palm-thatch  shields  from   the 

sun  aloft ! 


THE   RED   RIVER    VOYAGEUR. 


301 


His  dress  is  woven  of  palmy  strands, 
And  he  holds  a  palm-leaf  scroll  in  his 

hands, 

Traced  with  the  Prophet's  wise  com 
mands  ! 

The  turban  folded  about  his  head 
Was  daintily  wrought  of  the  palm-leaf 

brr.id, 
And  the  fan  that  cools  him  of  palm  was 

made. 

Of  threads  of  palm  was  the  carpet  spun 
Whereon   he   kneels  when  the  day  is 

done, 
And  the  foreheads  of  Islam  are  bowed 

as  one  ! 

Vo  him  the  palm  is  a  gift  divine, 
Wherein  all  uses  of  man  combine, — 
"House,    and  raiment,    and    food,    and 
wine  ! 

And,  in  the  hour  of  his  great  release, 
His  need  of  the  palm  shall  only  cease 
With  the  shroud  wherein   he   lieth  in 
peace. 

"  Allah  51  Allah  !  "  he  sings  his  psalm, 
On   the    Indian    Sea,   by  the   isles   of 

balm  ; 
"  Thanks    to    Allah    who     gives    the 

palm  ! " 


LINES, 

READ  AT  THE  BOSTON  CELEBRATION 
OF  THE  HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY 
OF  THE  BIRTH  OF  ROBERT  BURNS, 
25TH  1ST  MO.,  1859. 

How  sweetly  come  the  holy  psalms 

From  saints  and  martyrs  down. 
The  waving  of  triumphal  palms 

Above  the  thorny  crown  ! 
The  choral  praise,  the  chanted  prayers 

From  harps  by  angels  strung, 
The  hunted  Cameron's  mountain  airs, 

The  hymns  that  Luther  sung  ! 

Yet,  jarring  not  the  heavenly  notes, 
The  sounds  of  earth  are  heard, 


As  through  the  open  minster  floats 
The  song  of  breeze  and  bird  ! 

Not  less  the  wonder  of  the  sky 
That  daisies  bloom  below  ; 

The  brook  sings  on,  though  loud  and 

high 
The  cloudy  organs  blow  ! 

And,  if  the  tender  ear  be  jarred 

That,  haply,  hears  by  turns 
The  saintly  harp  of  Olney's  bard, 

The  pastoral  pipe  of  Burns, 
No  discord  mars  His  perfect  plan 

Who  gave  them  both  a  tongue  ; 
For  he  who  sings  the  love  of  man 

The  love  of  God  hath  sung  ! 

To-day  be  every  fault  forgiven 

Of  him  in  whom  we  joy  ! 
We   take,    witli  thanks,   the    gold    of 
Heaven 

And  leave  the  earth's  alloy. 
Be  ours  his  music  as  of  spring, 

His  sweetness  as  of  flowers, 
The  songs  the  bard  himself  might  sing 

In  holier  ears  than  ours. 

Sweet  airs  of  love  and  home,  the  hum 

Of  household  melodies. 
Come  singing,  as  the  robins  come 

To  sing  in  door-yard  trees. 
And,  heart  to  heart,  two  nations  lean, 

No  rival  wreaths  to  twine, 
But  blending  in  eternal  green 

The  holly  and  the  pine  ! 


THE  RED  RIVER  VOYAGEUR. 

OUT  and  in  the  river  is  winding 
The  links  of  its  long,  red  chain 

Through  belts  of  dusky  pine-land 
And  gusty  leagues  of  plain. 

Only,  at  times,  a  smoke-wreath 

With  the  drifting  cloud-rack  joins,  — - 

The  smoke  of  the  hunting-lodges 
Of  the  wild  Assiniboins  ! 

Drearily  blows  the  north-wind 
From  the  land  of  ice  and  snow ; 

The  eyes  that  look  are  weary, 
And  heavy  the  hands  that  row. 


302 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


And  with  one  foot  on  the  water, 

And  one  upon  the  shore, 
The  Angel  of  Shadow  gives  warning 

That  day  shall  be  no  more. 

Is  it  the  clang  of  wild-geese? 

Is  it  the  Indian's  yell, 
That  lends  to  the  voice  of  the  north- 
wind 

The  tones  of  a  far-off  bell  ? 

The  voyageur  smiles  as  he  listens 
To  the  sound  that  grows  apace ; 

Well  he  knows  the  vesper  ringing 
Of  the  bells  of  St.  Boniface. 

The  bells  of  the  Roman  Mission, 
That  call  from  their  turrets  twain, 

To  the  boatman  oh  the  river, 
To  the  hunter  on  the  plain  ! 

Even  so  in  our  mortal  journey 
The  bitter  north-winds  blow, 

And  thus  upon  life's  Red  River 
Our  hearts,  as  oarsmen,  row. 

And  when  the  Angel  of  Shadow 
Rests  his  feet  on  wave  and  shore. 

And  our  eyes  grow  dim  with  watching 
And  our  hearts  faint  at  the  oar, 

Happy  is  he  who  heareth 

The  signal  of  his  release 
In  the  bells  of  the  Holy  City, 

The  chimes  of  eternal  peace  ! 


KENOZA   LAKE. 

As  Adam  did  in  Paradise, 

To-day  the  primal  right  we  claim  : 
Fair  mirror  of  the  woods  and  skies, 

We  give  to  thee  a  name. 

Lake  of  the  pickerel !  —  let  no  more 
The    echoes    answer  back,    "  Great 
Pond," 

But  sweet  Kenoza,  from  thy  shore 
And  watching  hills  beyond, 

Let  Indian  ghosts,  if  such  the're  be 
Who  ply  unseen  their  shadowy  lines, 

Call  back  the  ancient  name  to  thee, 
As  with  the  voice  of  pines. 


The  shores  we  trod  as  barefoot  boys, 
The     nutted    woods    we     wandered 
through, 

To  friendship,  love,  and  social  joys 
We  consecrate  anew. 

Here  shall  the  tender  song  be  sung, 
And  memory's  dirges  soft  and  low, 

And  wit  shall  sparkle  on  the  tongue, 
And  mirth  shall  overflow, 

Harmless  as  summer  lightning  plays 
From  a  low,  hidden  cloud  by  night, 

A  light  to  set  the  hills  ablaze, 
But  not  a  bolt  to  smite. 

In  sunny  South  and  prairied  West 
Are  exiled  hearts  remembering  still, 

As  bees  their  hive,  as  birds  their  nest, 
The  homes  of  Haverhill. 

They  join  us  in  our  rites  to-day  ^ 
And,  listening,  we  may  hear,  erelong, 

From  inland  lake  and  ocean  bay, 
The  echoes  of  our  song. 

Kenoza  !  o'er  no  sweeter  lake 

Shall  morning  break  or  noon-cloud 
sail,  — 

No  fairer  face  than  thine  shall  take 
The  sunset's  golden  veil. 

Long  be  it  ere  the  tide  of  trade 

Shall   break  with   harsh-resounding 
din 

The  quiet  of  thy  banks  of  shade, 
And  hills  that  fold  thee  in. 

Still  let  thy  woodlands  hide  the  hare, 
The  shy  loon  sound  his  trumpet-not*  4 

Wing-weary  from  his  fields  of  air, 
The  wild-goose  on  thee  float. 

Thy  peace  rebuke  our  feverish  stir, 
Thy  beauty  our  deforming  strife  ; 

Thy  woods  and  waters  minister 
The  healing  of  their  life. 

And  sinless  Mirth,  from  care  released. 
Behold,  unawed,  thy  mirrored  sky, 

Smiling  as  smiled  on  Cana's  feast 
The  Master's  loving  eye. 


LINES. 


3<>3 


And  when  the  summer  day  grows  dim, 
And  light  mists  walk  thy  mimic  sea, 

Revive  in  us  the  thought  of  Him 
Who  walked  on  Galilee  ! 


TO   G.   B.   C. 

So  spake  Esaias :  so,  in  words  of  flame, 
Tekoa's  prophet-herdsman  smote  with 

blame 
The  traffickers  in  men,  and  put  to  shame, 

All  earth  and  heaven  before, 
The  sacerdotal  robbers  of  the  poor. 

All  the  dread  Scripture  lives  for  thee 

again, 
To  smite  like  lightning  on  the  hands 

profane 
Lifted  to  bless  the  slave-whip  and  the 

chain. 

Once  more  th'  old  Hebrew  tongue 
Bends   with  the  shafts  of  God  a  bow 

new-strung ! 

Take  up  the  mantle  which  the  prophets 

wore  ; 
Warn  with  their  warnings,  —  show  the 

Christ  once  more 
Bound,  scourged,  and  crucified  in  his 

blameless  poor  ; 
And  shake  above  our  land 
The   unquenchecl  bolts  that  blazed  in 

Hosea's  hand  ! 

Not  vainly   shalt  thou  cast  upon  our 
years 

The  solemn  burdens  of  the  Orient  seers, 

And  smite  with  truth  a  guilty  nation's 

ears. 
Mightier  was  Luther's  word 

Than  Seckingen's  mailed  arm  or  Hut- 
ton's  sword  i 


THE   SISTERS. 

A    PICTURE    BV    BARRY. 

THE  shade  for  me,  but  over  thee 
The  lingering  sunshine  still  ; 

As,  smiling,  to  the  silent  stream 
Comes  down  the  singing  rill, 


So  come  to  me,  my  little  one,  — 
My  years  with  thee  I  share, 

And  mingle  with  a  sister's  love 
A  mother's  tender  care. 

But  keep  the  smile  upon  thy  lip, 

The  trust  uyon  thy  brow  ; 
Since  for  the  dear  one  God  hath  called 

We  have  an  angel  now. 

Our  mother  from  the  fields  of  heaven 

Shall  still  her  ear  incline  ; 
Nor  need  we  fear  her  human  love 

Is  less  for  love  divine. 

The  songs  are  sweet  they  sing  beneath 

The  trees  of  life  so  fair, 
But  sweetest  of  the  songs  of  heaven 

Shall  be  her  children's  prayer. 

Then,  darling,  rest  upon  my  breast, 
And  teach  my  heart  to  lean 

With  thy  sweet  trust  upon  the  arm 
Which  folds  us  both  unseen  1 


LINES, 

FOR  THE  AGRICULTURAL  AND  HORTI 
CULTURAL  EXHIBITION  AT  AMES- 
BURY  AND  SALISBURY,  SEPT.  28, 
1858. 

THIS  day,  two  hundred  years  ago, 
The  wild  grape  by  the  river's  side, 

And  tasteless  groundnut  trailing  low, 
The  table  of  the  woods  supplied. 

Unknown  the  apple's  red  and  gold, 
The  blushing  tint  of  peach  and  pear ; 

The  mirror  of  the  Powow  told 
No  tale  of  orchards  ripe  and  rare. 

Wild  as  the  fruits  he  scorned  to  till, 
These  vales  the  idle  Indian  trod ; 

Nor  knew  the  glad,  creative  skill,  — 
The  joy  of  him  who  toils  with  God. 

O  Painter  of  the  fruits  and  flowers  ! 

We  thank  thee  for  thy  wise  design 
Whereby  these  human  hands  of  ours 

In  Nature's  garden  work  with  thine. 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


And  thanks  that  from  pur  daily  need 
The  joy  of  simple  faith  is  born  ; 

That  he  who  smites  the  summer  weed, 
May  trust  thee  for  the  autumn  corn. 

Give  fools  their  gold,  and  knaves  their 
power  ; 

Let  fortune's  bubbles  rise  and  fall ; 
Who  sows  a  field,  or  trains  a  flower, 

Or  plants  a  tree,  is  more  than  all. 

For  he  who  blesses  most  is  blest ; 

And  God  and  man  shall  own  his  worth 
Who  toils  to  leave  as  his  bequest 

An  added  beauty  to  the  earth. 

And,  soon  or  late,  to  all  that  sow, 
The  time  of  harvest  shall  be  given  ; 

The  flower  shall  bloom,  the  fruit  shall 

grow, 
If  not  on  earth,  at  last  in  heaven  ! 


THE   PREACHER. 

ITS  windows  flashing  to  the  sky, 

Beneath  a  thousand  roofs  of  brown, 
Far  dpwn  the  vale,  my  friend  and  I 

Beheld  the  old  and  quiet  town  ; 
The  ghostly  sails  that  out  at  sea 
Flapped  their  white  wings  of  mystery  ; 
The  beaches  glimmering  in  the  sun, 
And  the  low  wooded  capes  that  run 
Into  the  sea-mist  north  and  south  ; 
The  sand-bluffs  at  the  river's  mouth  ; 
The  swinging  chain-bridge,  and,  afar, 
The  foam-line  of  the  harbor-bar. 

Over  the  woods  and  meadow-lands 
A  crimson-tinted  shadow  lay 
Of  clouds  through  which  the  setting 

day 
Flung  a  slant  glory  far  away. 

It  glittered  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 
It  flamed  upon  the  city's  panes, 

Smote  the  white  sails  of  ships  that  wore 

Outward  or  in,  and  glided  o'er 

The  steeples  with  their  veering  vanes ! 

Awhile  my  friend  with  rapid  search 
O'erran    the    landscape.      "  Yonder 
spire 


Over  gray  roofs,  a  shaft  of  fire  ; 
What   is   it,    pray?"  — "The   White- 
field  Church  ! 

Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
There   rest   the   marvellous   prophet's 

bones." 

Then  as  our  homeward  way  we  walked, 
Of  the  great  preacher's  life  we  talked  ; 
And  through  the  mystery  of  our  theme 
The  outward  glory  seemed  to  stream, 
And  Nature's  self  interpreted 
The  doubtful  record  of  the  dead  ; 
And  every  level  beam  that  smote 
The  sails  upon  the  dark  afloat 

A  symbol  of  the  light  became 

Which  touched  the  shadows  of  our 
blame 

With  tongues  of  Pentecostal  flame. 

Over  the  roofs  of  the  pioneers 
Gathers  the  moss  of  a  hundred  years  ; 
On  man  and  his  works  has  passed  the 

change 
Which  needs   must  be  in  a  century's 

range. 

The  land  lies  open  and  warm  in  the  sun, 
Anvils  clamor  and  mill-wheels  run,  — 
Flocks  on  the  hillsides,  herds  on  the 

plain, 
The   wilderness  gladdened   with  fruit 

and  grain  ! 

But  the  living  faith  of  the  settlers  old 
A  dead  profession  their  children  hold  ; 
To  the  lust  of  office  and  greed  of  trade? 
A  stepping-stone  is  the  altar  made. 
The  Church,  to  place  and  power  the 

door, 

Rebukes  the  sin  of  the  world  no  more. 
Nor  sees  its  Lord  in  the  homeless  poor. 
Everywhere  is  the  grasping  hand, 
And  eager  adding  of  land  to  land; 
And  earth,  which  seemed  to  the  fathers 

meant 

But  as  a  pilgrim's  wayside  tent,  — 
A  nightly  shelter  to  fold  away 
When  the  Lord  should  call  at  the  break 

of  day,  — 

Solid  and  steadfast  seems  to  be, 
And  Time  has  forgotten  Eternity  ! 

But  fresh  and  green  from  the  rotting 

roots 
Of  primal   forests  the    young  growth 

shoots  ; 


THE  PREACHER. 


3°5 


From  the  death  of  the  old  the  new  pro 
ceeds, 
And  the  life  of  truth  from  the  rot  of 

creeds : 
On  the  ladder  of  God,  which  upward 

leads, 

The  steps  of  progress  are  human  needs. 
For  his  judgments  still  are  a  mighty 

deep, 
And  the  eyes  of  his  providence  never 

sleep  : 
When  the  night  is  darkest  he  gives  the 

morn  ; 
When   the  famine  is  sorest,  the  wine 

and  corn  1 

In  the   church   of  the  wilderness  Ed 
wards  wrought, 
Shaping    his    creed    at    the    forge    of 

thought ; 
And  with  Thor's  own  hammer  welded 

and  bent 

The  iron  links  of  his  argument, 
Which  strove  to  grasp  in  its  mighty  span 
The  purpose  of  God  and  the  fate  of  man  ! 
Yet  faithful  still,  in  his  daily  round 
To  the  weak,  and  the  poor,  and  sin-sick 

found, 
The  schoolman's  lore  and  the  casuist's 

art 
Drew  warmth  and  life  from  his  fervent 

heart. 

Had  he  not  seen  in  the  solitudes 
Of  his   deep   and  dark   Northampton 

woods 

A  vision  of  love  about  him  fall? 
Not  the  blinding  splendor  which  fell  on 

Saul, 
But  the   tenderer  glory  that  rests  on 

them 

Who  walk  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
Where  never  the   sun   nor  moon  are 

known, 
But  the  Lord  and  his  love  are  the  light 

alone  ! 

And  watching  the  sweet,  still  counte 
nance 

Of  the  wife  of  his  bosom  rapt  in  trance. 
Had  he  not  treasured  each  broken  word 
Of  the  mystical  wonder  seen  and  heard; 
And  loved  the  beautiful  dreamer  more 
That  thus  to  the  desert  of  earth  she 

bore 
Clusters  of  Eschol  from  Canaan's  shore? 


As  the  barley-winnower,  holding  with 

pain 

Aloft  in  waiting  his  chaff  and  grain, 
Joyfully  welcomes  the  far-off  breeze 
Sounding  the  pine-tree's  slender  keys, 
So  he  who  had  waited  long  to  hear 
The  sound  of  the  Spirit  drawing  near, 
Like  that  which  the  son  of  Iddo  heard 
When  the  feet  of  angels  the  myrtles 

stirred, 

Felt  the  answer  of  prayer,  at  last, 
As  over  his  church  the  afflatus  passed, 
Breaking  its  sleep  as  breezes  break 
To  sun-bright  ripples  a  stagnant  lake. 

At  first  a  tremor  of  silent  fear, 
The  creep  of  the  flesh  at  danger  near, 
A  vague  foreboding  and  discontent, 
Over  the  hearts  of  the  people  went 
All  nature  warned  in  sounds  and  signs  : 
The  wind  in  the  tops  of  the  forest  pines 
In  the  name  of  the  Highest  called  to 

prayer, 
As  the  muezzin  calls  from  the  minaret 

stair. 

Through  ceiled  chambers  of  secret  sin 
Sudden  and  strong  the  light  shone  in  ; 
A  guilty  sense  of  his  neighbor's  needs 
Startled  the  man  of  title-deeds  ; 
The  trembling  hand  of  the  worldling 

shook 

The  dust  of  years  from  the  Holy  Book ; 
And  the  psalms  of  David,   forgotten 

long, 
Took  the  place  of  the  scoffer's  song. 

The  impulse  spread  like  the  outward 

course 

Of  waters  moved  by  a  central  force  : 
The  tide  of  spiritual  life  rolled  down 
From  inland  mountains  to  seaboard 

town. 

Prepared  and  ready  the  altar  stands 
Waiting  the  prophet's  outstretched 

hands 

And  prayer  availing,  to  downward  call 
The  fiery  answer  in  view  of  all. 
Hearts  are  like  wax  in  the  furnace,  who 
Shall  mould,  and  shape,  and  cast  them 

anew? 
Lo  !  by  the    Merrimack  WHITEFIELD 

stands 
In  the  temple  that  never  was  made  by 

hands,  — 


3o6 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


Curtains  of  azure,  and  crystal  wall, 
And  dome  of  the  sunshine  over  all !  — 
A  homeless  pilgrim,  with  dubious  name 
Blown  about  on  the  winds  of  fame ; 
Now  as  an  angel  of  blessing  classed, 
And  now  as  a  mad  enthusiast. 
Called  in  his  youth  to  sound  and  gauge 
The  moral  lapse  of  his  race  and  age, 
And,  sharp  as  truth,  the  contrast  draw 
Of  human  frailty  and  perfect  law  ; 
Possessed  by  the   one   dread   thought 

that  lent 

Its  goad  to  his  fiery  temperament, 
Up  and  down  the  world  he  went, 
A  John  the  Baptist  crying,  —  Repent ! 

No  perfect  whole  can  our  nature  make  ; 
Here  or  there  the  circle  will  break  ; 
The  orb  of  life  as  it  takes  the  light 
On  one  side  leaves  the  other  in  night. 
Never  was  saint  so  good  and  great 
As  to  give  no  chance  at  St.  Peter's  gate 
For  the  plea  of  the  Devil's  advocate. 
So,  incomplete  by  his  being's  law, 
The  marvellous  preacher  had  his  flaw  : 
With  step  unequal,  and  lame  with  faults, 
His  shade  on  the  path  of  History  halts. 

Wisely  and  well  said  the  Eastern  bard  ; 
Fear  is  easy,  but  love  is  hard,  — 
Easy  to  glow  with  the  Santon's  rage, 
And  walk  on  the  Meccan  pilgrimage; 
But  he  is  greatest  and  best  who  can 
Worship  Allah  by  loving  man. 

Thus  he, — to* whom,   in   the   painful 

stress 

Of  zeal  on  fire  from  its  own  excess, 
Heaven  seemed  so  vast  and   earth   so 

small 
That  man  was  nothing,  since  God  was 

all,— 

Forgot,  as  the  best  at  times  have  done, 
That  the  love  of  the  Lord  and  of  man 

are  one. 

Little  to  him  whose  feet  unshod 
The  thorny  path  of  the  desert  trod, 
Careless  of  pain,  so  it  led  to  God, 
Seemed  the  hunger-pang  and  the  poor 

man's  wrong, 
The  weak  ones  trodden  beneath  the 

strong. 


Should  the  worm  be  chooser?  —  tha 

clay  withstand 
The  shaping  will  of  the  potter's  hand  ? 

In  the  Indian  fable  Arjoon  hears 
The  scorn  of  a  god  rebuke  his  fears: 
"  Spare  thy  pity  !  "  Krishna  saith  ; 
"  Not   in  thy  sword   is    the   power  of 

death  ! 

All  is  illusion,  — loss  but  seems  ; 
Pleasure  and  pain  are  only  dreams  ; 
Who  deems  he  slayeth  doth  not  kill ; 
Who  counts  as  slain  is  living  still. 
Strike,  nor  fear  thy  blow  is  crime  ; 
Nothing  dies  but 'the  cheats  of  time; 
Slain  or  slayer,  small  the  odds 
To  each,  immortal  as  Indra's  gods  !  " 

So  by  Savannah's  banks  of  shade, 

The  stones  of  his  mission  the  preacher 
laid 

On  the  heart  of  the  negro  crushed  and 
rent, 

And  made  of  his  blood  the  wall's  ce 
ment  ; 

Bade  the  slave-ship  speed  from  coast  to 
coast 

Fanned  by  the  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 

And  begged,  for  the  love  of  Christ,  the 
gold 

Coined  from  the  hearts  in  its  groaning 
hold. 

What  could  it  matter,  more  or  less 

Of  stripes,  and  hunger,  and  weariness? 

Living  or  dying,  bond  or  free, 

What  was  time  to  eternity  ? 

Alas     for    the    preacher's     cherished 

schemes  ! 

Mission  and  church  are  nowbut  dreams; 
Nor  prayer  nor  fasting  availed  the  plan 
To  honor  God  through  the  wrong  of 

man. 

Of  all  his  labors  no  trace  remains 
Save  the  bondman  lifting  his  hands  in 

chains. 

The  woof  he  wove  in  the  righteous  warp 
Of  freedom-loving  Oglethorpe, 
Clothes  with  curses  the  .roodly  land, 
Changesitsgreennessand bloom  tosand  ; 
And  a  century's  lapse  reveals  once  more 
The   slave-ship    stealing  to  Georgia's 

shore. 


THE   PREACHER. 


307 


Father  of  Light  !  how  blind  is  he 
Who  sprinkles  the  altar  he  rears  to  Thee 
With  the  blood  and  tears  of  humanity  ! 

He  erred :  Shall  we  count  his  gifts  as 

naught  ? 

Was  the  work  of  God  in  him  unwrought  ? 
The  servant  may  through  his  deafness 

err, 

And  blind  may  be  God's  messenger  ; 
But  the  errand  is  sure  they  go  upon,  — 
The  word  is  spoken,  the  deed  is  done. 
Was  the  Hebrew  temple  less  fair  and 

good 

That  Solomon  bowed  to  gods  of  wood? 
For  his  tempted  heart  and  wandering 

feet, 
Were  the  songs  of  David  less  pure  and 

sweet  ? 
So  in  light   and  shadow  the  preacher 

went, 

God's  erring  and  human  instrument  ; 
And  the  hearts  of  the  people  where  he 

passed 

Swayed  as  the  reeds  sway  in  the  blast, 
Under  the  spell  of  a  voice  which  took 
In  its  compass  the  flow  of  Siloa's  brook, 
And  the  mystical  chime  of  the  bells  of 

gold 

Ontheephod'shem  ofthepriestofold, — 
Nowtheroll  of  thunder,  and  nowthe  awe 
Of  the  trumpet  heard  in  the  Mount  of 

Law. 

A  solemn  fear  on  the  listening  crowd 
Fell  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud. 
The  sailor  reeling  from  out  the  ships 
Whose  masts  stood  thick  in  the  river- 
slips 
Felt  the  jest  and  the  curse  die  on  his 

lips. 

Listened  the  fisherman  rude  and  hard, 
The  calker  rough  irom  the  builder's 

yard, 

The  man  of  the  market  left  his  load, 
The  teamster   leaned   on  his  bending 

goad, 

The  maiden,  and  youth  beside  her,  felt 
Their  hearts  in  a  closer  union  melt, 
And  saw   the   flowers  of  their  love  in 

bloom 

Down  the  endless  vistas  of  life  to  come. 
Qld  age  sat  feebly  brushing  away 
From  his  earo  the  scanty  locks  of  gray  ; 


And  careless  boyhood,  living  the  free 

Unconscious  life  of  bird  and  tree, 

Suddenly  wakened  to  a  sense 

Of  sin  and  its  guilty  consequence. 

It  was  as  if  an  angel's  voice 

Called  the  listeners  up  for  their  final 

choice ; 

As  if  a  strong  hand  rent  apart 
The  veils  of  sense  from  soul  and  heart. 
Showing  in  light  ineffable 
The  joys  of  heaven  and  woes  of  hell ! 
All  about  in  the  misty  air 
The   hills    seemed   kneeling  in   silent 

prayer ; 

The  rustle  of  leaves,  the  moaning  sedge 
The  water's  lap  on  its  gravelled  edge, 
The  wailing  pines,  and,  far  and  faint, 
The    wood-dove's   note    of  sad   com 
plaint,  — 
To  the  solemn  voice  of  the  preacher 

lent 

An  undertone  as  of  low  lament  ; 
And  the  rote  of  the  sea  from  its  sandy 

coast, 
On  the  easterly  wind,  now  heard,  now 

lost, 
Seemed  the  murmurous   sound  of  the 

judgment  host. 

Yet  wise  men  doubted,  and  good  men 

wept, 
As  that  storm  of  passion  above  them, 

swept, 

And,  comet-like,  adding  flame  to  flame, 
The  priests  of  the  new  Evangel  came, — 
Davenport,  flashing  upon  the  crowd, 
Charged  like  summer's  electric  cloud, 
Now  holding  the  listener  still  as  death 
With  terrible  warnings  under  breath, 
Now  shouting  for  joy,  as  if  he  viewed 
The  vision  of  Heaven's  beatitude  ! 
And    Celtic   Tennant,    his    long    coat 

bound 
Like    a    monk's  with   leathern  girdle 

round, 

Wild  with  the  toss  of  unshorn  hair, 
And  wringing  of  hands,  and  eyesaglare, 
Groaning  under  the  world's  despair  ! 
Grave  pastors,  grieving  their  flocks  to 

lose, 

Prophesied  to  the  empty  pews 
That  gourds  would  wither,  and  mush 
rooms  die, 
And  noisiest  fountains  run  soonest  dry, 


3o3 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


Like  the  spring  that  gushed  in  New- 

bury  Street, 
Under  the  tramp  of  the   earthquake's 

feet, 

A  silver  shaft  in  the  air  and  light, 
For  a  single  day,  then  lost  in  night, 
Leaving  only,  its  place  to  tell, 
Sandy  fissure  and  sulphurous  smell. 
With  zeal  wing-clipped  and  white-heat 

cool, 

Moved  by  the  spirit  in  grooves  of  rule, 
No  longer   harried,  and  cropped,  and 

fleeced, 

Flogged  by  sheriff  and  cursed  by  priest, 
But  by  wiser  counsels  left  at  ease 
To  settle  quietly  on  his  lees, 
And,  self-concentred,  to  count  as  done 
The  work  which  his  fathers  scarce  be 
gun, 

In  silent  protest  of  letting  alone, 
The  Quaker  kept  the  way  of  his  own,  — 
A  non-conductor  among  the  wires, 
With  coat  of  asbestos  proof  to  fires. 
And  quite  unable  to  mend  his  pace 
To  catch  the  falling  manna  of  grace, 
He  hugged  the  closer  his  little  store 
Of  faith,  and  silently  prayed  for  more. 
And  vague  of  creed  and  barren  of  rite, 
But  holding,  as  in  his  Master's  sight, 
Act  and  thought  to  the  inner  light, 
The  round  of  his  simple  duties  walked, 
And  strove  to  live  what  the  others  talked. 

And  who  shall  marvel  if  evil  went 
Step  by  step  with  the  good  intent, 
And  with  love  and  meekness,  side  by 

side, 

Lust  of  the  flesh  and  spiritual  pride?  — 
That  passionate  longings  and   fancies 

vain 
Set  the  heart  on  fire  and  crazed  the 

brain  ?  — 

That  over  the  holy  oracles 
Folly  sported  with  cap  and  bells  ?  — 
That  goodly  women  and  learned  men 
Marvelling  told  with  tongue  and  pen 
How  unweaned  children  chirped  like 

birds  t 

Texts  of  Scripture  and  solemn  words, 
Like  the  infant  seers  of  the  rocky  glens 
In  the  Puy  de  Dome  of  wild  Cevennes  : 
Or  baby  Lamas  who  pray  and  preach 
From     Tartar     cradles    in    Buddha's 

speech  ? 


In  the  war  which  Truth  or  Freedom 

wages 
With  impious  fraud  and  the  wrong  of 

ages 

Hate  and  malice  and  self-love  mar 
The  notes  of  triumph  with  painful  jar, 
And  the  helping  angels  turn  aside 
Their  sorrowing  faces  the  shame  to  hide. 
Never  on  custom's  oiled  grooves 
The  world  to  a  higher  level  moves, 
But  grates  and  grinds  with  friction  hard 
On  granite  boulder  and  flinty  shard. 
The  heart  must  bleed  before  it  feels, 
The  pool  be  troubled  before  it  heals ; 
Ever  by  losses  the  right  must  gain, 
Every  good  have  its  birth  of  pain  ; 
The  active  Virtues  blush  to  find 
The  Vices  wearing  their  badge  behind, 
And  Graces  and  Charities  feel  the  fire 
Wherein  the  sins  of  the  age  expire  ; 
The  fiend  still  rends  as  of  old  he  rent 
The  tortured  body  from  which  he  went. 

But  Time  tests  all.     In  the  over-drift 
And  flow  of  the  Nile,  with  its  annual 

gift, 

Who  cares  for  the  Hadji's  relics  sunk? 
Who  thinks  of  the  drowned-out  Coptic 

monk  ? 
The   tide    that  loosens    the    temple's 

stones, 

And  scatters  the  sacred  ibis-bones, 
Drives  away  from  the  valley-land 
That  Arab  robber,  the  wandering  sand, 
Moistens  the  fields  that  know  no  rain, 
Fringes  the  desert  with  belts  of  grain, 
And  bread  to  the  sower  brings  again. 
So    the    flood    of   emotion    deep   and 

strong 

Troubled  the  land  as  it  swept  along, 
But  left  a  result  of  holier  lives, 
Tenderer  mothers  and  worthier  wives. 
The  husband  and  father  whose  children 

fled  < 
And  sad  wife  wept  when  his  drunken 

tread 
Frightened  peace  from  his  roof-tree's 

shade, 
And  a  rock  of  offence  his  hearthstone 

made, 

In  a  strength  that  was  not  his  own,  be 
gan 
To  rise  from  the  brute's  to  the  plane 

of  man. 


THE   QUAKER  ALUMNI. 


309 


Old  friends  embraced,  long  held  apart 
By  evil  counsel  and  pride  of  heart  ; 
And  penitence  saw  through  misty  tears, 
In  the  bow  of  hope  on  its  cloud  of  fears, 
The     promise     of     Heaven's    eternal 

years,  — 

The  peace  of  God  for  the  world's  an 
noy,  — 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  oil  of  joy  ! 

Under  the  church  of  Federal  Street, 
Under  the  tread  of  its  Sabbath  feet, 
Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
Lie  the  marvellous  preacher's  bones. 
No  saintly  honors  to  them  are  shown, 
No  sign  nor  miracle  have  they  known  ; 
But  he  who  passes  the  ancient  church 
Stops  in  the  shade  of  its  belfry-porch, 
And  ponders  the  wonderful  life  of  him 
Who  lies  at  rest  in  that  charnel  dim. 
Long  shall  the  traveller  strain  his  eye 
From  the  railroad  car,  as  it  plunges  by, 
And  the  vanishing  town  behind  him 

search 
For  the  slender  spire  of  the  Whitefield 

Church ; 
And  feel  for  one  moment  the  ghosts  of 

trade, 
And  fashion,  and  folly,  and  pleasure 

laid, 

By  the  thought  of  that  life  of  pure  in 
tent, 

That  voice  of  warning  yet  eloquent, 
Of  one  on  the  errands  of  angels  sent.  _ 
And  if  where  he  labored  the  flood  of  sin 
Like  a  tide  from  the  harbor-bar  sets  in, 
And  over  a  life  of  time  and  sense 
The   church-spires  lift  their  vain  de 
fence, 

As  if  to  scatter  the  bolts  of  God 
With  the  points  of  Calvin's  thunder- 
rod, — 

Still,  as  the  gem  of  its  civic  crown, 
Precious  beyond  the  world's  renown, 
His  memory  hallows  the  ancient  town ! 


THE   QUAKER  ALUMNI.™ 

FROM  the  well-springs  of  Hudson,  the 

sea-cliffs  of  Maine, 
Grave  men,  sober  matrons,  you  gather 

again ; 


And,  with  hearts  warmer  grown  as 
your  heads  grow  more  cool, 

Play  over  the  old  game  of  going  to 
school. 

All  your  strifes  and  vexations,  your 
whims  and  complaints, 

(You  were  not  saints  yourselves,  if  the 
children  of  saints  !  ) 

All  your  petty  self-seekings  and  rival 
ries  done, 

Round  the  dear  Alma  Mater  your 
hearts  beat  as  one  ! 

How  widely  soe'er  you  have  strayed 

from  the  fold, 
Though  your  "  thee"  has  grown  "you," 

and  your  drab  blue  and  gold, 
To   the   old   friendly  speech   and   the 

garb's  sober  form, 
Like  the  heart  of  Argyle  to  the  tartan, 

you  warm. 


;s  over,  you  glance 


But,  the  first  greetings 
round  the  hall ; 


Your  hearts  call  the  roll,  but  they  an 
swer  not  all : 

Through  the  turf  green  above  them  the 
dead  cannot  hear ; 

Name  by  name,  in  the  silence,  falls  sad 
as  a  tear ! 

In  love,  let  us  trust,  they  were  sum 
moned  so  soon 

From  the  morning  of  life,  while  we  toil 
through  its  noon  ; 

They  were  frail  like  ourselves,  they  had 
needs  like  our  own, 

And  they  rest  as  we  rest  in  God's 
mercy  alone. 

Unchanged  by  our  changes  of  spirit 

and  frame, 
Past,  now,  and  henceforward  the  Lord 

is  the  same  ; 
Though  we  sink  in  the  darkness,  his 

arms  break  our  fall, 
And  in  death  as  in  life,  he  is  Father  of 

alll 

We  are  older  :  our  footsteps,  so  light  in 

the  play 
Of  the    far-away    school-time,    move 

slower  to-day;  — 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


Here  a  beard  touched  with  frost,  there 

a  bald,  shining  crown, 
And  beneath   the   cap's    border    gray 

mingles  with  brown. 

But  faith  should  be  cheerful,  and  trust 

should  be  glad. 
And  our  follies  and  sins,  not  our  years, 

make  us  sad. 
Should   the   heart   closer  shut   as  the 

bonnet  grows  prim, 
And  the  face  grow  in  length  as  the  hat 

grows  in  brim  ? 

Life  is  brief,  duty  grave  ;  but,  with  rain- 
folded  wings, 

Of  yesterday's  sunshine  the  grateful 
heart  sings  ; 

And  we,  of  all  others,  have  reason  to 
pay 

The  tribute  of  thanks,  and  rejoice  on 
our  way ; 

For  the  counsels  that  turned  from  the 
follies  of  youth  ; 

For  the  beauty  of  patience,  the  white 
ness  of  truth  ; 

For  the  wounds  of  rebuke,  when  love 
tempered  its  edge  ; 

For  the  household's  restraint,  and  the 
discipline's  hedge  ; 

For  the  lessons  of  kindness  vouchsafed 
to  the  least 

Of  the  creatures  of  God,  whether  hu 
man  or  beast, 

Bringing  hope  to  the  poor,  lending 
strength  to  the  frail, 

In  the  lanes  of  the  city,  the  slave-hut, 
and  jail  ; 

For  a  womanhood  higher  and  holier, 
by  all 

Her  knowledge  of  good,  than  was  Eve 
ere  her  fall,  — 

Whose  task-work  of  duty  moves  light 
ly  as  play, 

Serene  as  the  moonlight  and  warm  as 
the  day ; 

.\nd,  yet  more,  for  the  faith  which  em 
braces  the  whole, 

Of  the  creeds  of  the  ages  the  life  and 
the  soul, 


Wherein   letter    and    spirit  the   same 

channel  run, 
And   man   has  not  severed  what  God 

has  made  one  ! 

For  a  sense  of  the  Goodness  revealed 

everywhere, 
As  sunshine  impartial,  and  free  as  the 

air  ; 
For  a  trust  in  humanity,  Heathen  or 

Jew, 
And  a  hope  for  all  darkness  The  Light 

shineth  through. 

Who  scoffs  at  our  birthright  ?  —  the 
words  of  the  seers, 

And  the  songs  of  the  bards  in  the  twi 
light  of  years, 

All  the  foregl earns  of  wisdom  in  san-  • 
ton  and  sage, 

In  prophet  and  priest,  are  our  true 
heritage. 

The  Word  which  the  reason  of  Plato 

discerned  ; 
The  truth,  as  whose  symbol  the  Mithra- 

fire  burned  ; 
The  soul  of  the  world  which  the  Stoic 

but  guessed, 
In  the   Light   Universal  the    Quaker 

confessed  ! 

No  honors  of  war  to  our  worthies  be 
long  ; 

Their  plain  stem  of  life  never  flowered 
into  song ; 

But  the  fountains  they  opened  still 
gush  by  the  way, 

And  the  world  for  their  healing  is  bet 
ter  to-day. 

He  who  lies  where  the  minster's 
groined  arches  curve  down 

To  the  tomb-crowded  transept  of  Eng 
land's  renown. 

The  glorious  essayist,  by  genius  en 
throned, 

Whose  pen  as  a  sceptre  the  Muses  all 
owned,  — 

Who   through    the   world's    pantheon 

walked  in  his  pride, 
Setting  new  statues  up,   thrusting  old 

ones  aside, 


THE   QUAKER  ALUMNI. 


And   in   fiction   the  pencils  of  history 

dipped, 
To  gild  o'er  or  blacken  each  saint  in 

his  crypt,  — 

How  vainly  he   labored  to  sully  with 

blame 
The  white  bust  of  Penn,  in  the  niche 

of  his  fame  ! 
Self-will    is   self-wounding,    perversity 

blind  : 
On  himself  fell  the  stain  for  the  Quaker 

designed ! 

For  the  sake  of  his  true-hearted  father 

before  him  ; 
For  the  sake  of  the  dear  Quaker  mother 

that  bore  him  ; 
For  the  sake  of  his  gifts,  and  the  works 

that  outlive  him, 
And  his  brave  words  for  freedom,  we 

freely  forgive  him  ! 

1  here  are  those  who  take  note  that  our 

numbers  are  small,  — 
New  Gibbons  who  write   our  decline 

and  our  fall ; 
^ut   the  Lord  of  the   seed-field  takes 

care  of  his  own, 
And  the  world  shall  yet  reap  what  our 

sowers  have  sown. 

The  last  of  the  sect  to  his  fathers  may 

.  S°> 
Leaving  only  his  coat  for  some  Bar- 

mim  to  show  ; 
But   the   truth  will   outlive   him,   and 

broaden  with  years, 
Till  the  false  dies  away,  and  the  wrong 

disappears. 

Nothing  fails  of  its  end.     Out  of  sight 

sinks  the  stone, 
In  the  deep  sea  of  time,  but  the  circles 

sweep  on, 
Till  the  low-rippled  murmurs  along  the 

shores  run, 
And   the   dark   and   dead  waters  leap 

glad  in  the  sun. 

Meanwhile  shall  we  learn,  in  our  ease, 
to  forget 

To  the  martyrs  of  Truth  and  of  Free 
dom  our  debt  ?  — 


Hide  their  words  out  of  sight,  like  the 

garb  that  they  wore, 
And  for   Barclay's  Apology  offer  one 

more  ? 

Shall   we    fawn   round   the   priestcraft 

that  glutted  the  shears, 
And   festooned   the     stocks   with    our 

grandfathers'  ears?  — 
Talk   of  Woohnan's   unsoundness  ?  — 

count  Penn  heterodox? 
And   take  Cotton  Mather   in  place  of 

George  Fox  ?  — 

Make  our  preachers  war-chaplains  ?  — 
quote  Scripture  to  take 

The  hunted  slave  back,  for  Onesimus' 
'  sake?  — 

Go  to  burning  church -candles,  and 
chanting  in  choir, 

And  on  the  old  meeting-house  stick 
up  a  spire  ? 

No !   the   old   paths  we  '11  keep  until 

better  are  shown, 
Credit  good  where  we  find  it,  abroad 

or  our  own  ; 
And  while  "  Lq  here  "  and  "  Lo  there  " 

the  multitude  call, 
Be  true  to  ourselves,  and  do  justice  to 

all. 

The  good  round  about  us  we  need  not 

refuse, 
Nor  talk  of  our  Zion  as  if  we   were 

Jews ; 
But  why  shirk   the  badge  which  our 

fathers  have  worn, 
Or  beg  the  world's  pardon  for  having 

been  born  ? 

We  need  not  pray  over  the  Pharisee's 
prayer, 

Nor  claim  that  our  wisdom  is  Benja 
min's  share. 

Truth  to  us  and  to  others  is  equal  and 
one  : 

Shall  we  bottle  the  free  air,  or  hoard  up 
the  sun  ? 

Well  know  we  our  birthright  may  serve 

but  to  show 
How    the    meanest  of  weeds  in    the 

richest  soil  grow ; 


312 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


But  we  need   not  disparage  the  good 

which  we  hold  ; 
Though  the  vessels  be   earthen,   the 

treasure  is  gold  I 

Enough  and  too  much  of  the  sect  and 

the  name. 
What  matters  our  label,  so  truth  be 

our  aim  ? 
The  creed  may  be  wrong,  but  the  life 

may  be  true, 
And  hearts  beat  the  same  under  drab 

coats  or  blue. 

So  the  man  be  a  man,  let  him  worship, 

at  will, 
In  Jerusalem's  courts,  or  on  Gerizim's 

hill. 
When  she  makes  up  her  jewels,  what 

cares  yon  good  town 
For  the    Baptist    of   WAYLANI>,   the 

Quaker  of  BROWN  ? 

And  this  green,  favored  island,  so  fresh 

and  sea-blown, 
When  she  counts  up  the  worthies  her 

annals  have  known, 
Never  waits  for  the  pitiful  gaugers  of 

sect 
To  measure  her  love,  and  mete  out  her 

respect. 

Three  shades  at  this  moment    seem 

walking  her  strand, 
Each    with  head    halo-crowned,    and 

with  palms  in  his  hand, — 
Wise   Berkeley,  grave   Hopkins,  and, 

smiling  serene 
On  prelate  and  puritan,  Channing  is 

seen. 

One  holy  name  bearing,  no  longer  tfoey 
need 

Credentials  of  party,  and  pass-words  of 
creed  : 

The  new  song  they  sing  hath  a  three 
fold  accord,, 

And  they  own  one  baptism,  one  faith, 
and  one  Lord  ! 

But  the  golden  sands  run  out :  occa 
sions  like  these 

Glide  swift  into  shadow,  like  sails  on 
the  seas  : 


While  we   sport  with  the  mosses  and 

pebbles  ashore, 
They  lessen  and  fade,  and  we  see  them 

no  more. 

Forgive  me,  dear  friends,  if  my  vagrant 

thoughts  seem 
Like   a    school-boy's    who    idles  and 

plays  with  his  theme. 
Forgive     the    light     measure    whose 

changes  display 
The  sunshine   and  rain   of   our  brief 

April  day. 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  the  lip 

and  the  eye 
Try  the  question  of  whether  to  smile 

or  to  cry  ; 
And  scenes  and  reunions  that  prompt 

like  our  own 
The  tender  in  feeling,  the  playful  in  tone. 

I,  who  never  sat  down  with  the  boys 
and  the  girls 

At  the  feet  of  your  Slocums,  and  Cart- 
lands,  and  Earles,  — 

By  courtesy  only  permitted  to  lay 

On  your  festival's  altar  my  poor  gift, 
to-day,  — 

I  would  joy  in  your  joy  :  let  me  have  a 
friend's  part 

In  the  warmth  of  your  welcome  of 
hand  and  of  heart,  — 

On  your  play-ground  of  boyhood  un 
bend  the  brow's  care, 

And  shift  the  old  burdens  our  shoulders 
must  bear. 

Long  live  the  good1  School !  giving  out 
year  by  year 

Recruits  to  true  manhood  and  woman 
hood  dear : 

Brave  boys,  modest  maidens,  in  beauty 
sent  fortK. 

The  living  epistles  and  proof  of  its 
worth  ! 

In  and  out  let  the  young  life  as  steadily 
flow 

As  in  broad  Narragansett  the  tides 
come  and  go ; 

And  its  sons  and  its  daughters  in  prairie 
and  town 

Remember  its  honor,  and  guard  its  re 
nown* 


FROM  PERUGIA. 


Not  vainly  the  gift  of  its  founder  was 

made  ; 
Not  prayerless  the  stones  of  its  corner 

were  laid  : 
The  blessing  of  Him  whom   in   secret 

they  sought 
Has  owned  the  good  work  which  the 

fathers  have  wrought. 


To   Him  be  the  glory  forever  !  —  We 

bear 
To  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  our  wheat 

with  the  tare. 
What  we  lack  in  our  work  may  He  find 

in  our  will, 
And  winnow  in  mercy  our  good  from 

the  ill ! 


BROWN   OF  OSSAWATOMIE. 


JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE  spake  on  his  dying  day  : 
"  I  will  not  have  to  shrive  my  soul  a  priest  in  Slavery's  pay. 
But  let  some  poor  slave-mother  whom  I  have  striven  to  free, 
With  her  children,  from  the  gallows-stair  put  up  a  prayer  for 


me!' 


The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  moment  fell  apart ; 


Nevermore  may  yon  Blue  Ridges  the  Northern  rifle  hear, 
Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash  on  the  negro's  spear. 
But  let  the  free:winged  angel  Truth  their  guarded  passes  scale, 
To  teach  that  right  is  more  than  might,  and  justice  more  than  mail ! 

So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle  in  array  ; 

Tn  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead  the  winter  snow  with  clay. 

i strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but  she  dares  not  harm  the  dove ; 

:y  gate  she  bars  to  Hate  shall  open  wide  to  Love  ! 


She  may  strike  the  po 
And  ever 


FROM  PERUGIA. 

"  The  thing  which  has  the  most  dissev 
ered  the  people  from  the  Pope,  —  the  un 
forgivable  thine,  —  the  breaking  point  be 
tween  him  and  them,  —  has  been  the  en 
couragement  and  promotion  he  gave  to  the 
officer  under  whom  were  executed  the 
slaughters  of  Perugia.  That  made  the 
breaking  point  in  many  honest  hearts  that 
had  clung  to  him  before."  —  Harriet  Beech- 
er  Stowe's  "  Letters  from  Italy." 

THE  tall,  sallow  guardsmen  their  horse 
tails  have  spread, 

Flaming  out  in  their  violet,  yellow,  and 
red; 


And  behind  go  the  lackeys  in  crimson 
and  buff, 

And  the  chamberlains  gorgeous  in  vel 
vet  and  ruff; 

Next,  in  red-legged  pomp,  come  the 
cardinals  forth, 

Each  a  lord  of  the  church  and  a  prince 
of  the  earth. 


What 's  this  squeak  of  the  fife,  and  this 
batter  of  drum  ? 

Lo  !  the  Swiss  of  the  Church  from  Pe 
rugia  come,  — 


3H 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


The  militant  angels,  whose  sabres  drive 

home 
To    the    hearts    of  the    malcontents, 

cursed  and  abhorred, 
The  good  Father's  missives,  and  "Thus 

saith  the  Lord  !  " 
And  lend  to  his  logic  the  point  of  the 

sword  ! 

O  maids  of  Etruria,  gazing  forlorn 
O'er  dark    Thrasymenus,    dishevelled 

and  torn  ! 
O  fathers,  who  pluck  at  your  gray  beards 

for  shame  ! 
O   mothers,    struck    dumb  by   a    woe 

without  name  ! 
Well  ye  know  how  the  Holy  Church 

hireling  behaves, 
And  his  tender  compassion  of  prisons 

and  graves  ! 

There  they  stand,  the  hired  stabbers, 

the  blood-stains  yet  fresh, 
That  splashed  like  red  wine  from  the 

vintage  of  flesh, — 
Grim  instruments,  careless  as  pincers 

and  rack 
How   the  joints  tear  apart,    and   the 

strained  sinews  crack  ; 
But  the  hate  that   glares   on  them   is 

sharp  as  their  swords, 
And  the  sneer  and  the  scowl  print  the 

air  with  fierce  words  ! 

Off  with  hats,  down  with  knees,  shout 
your  vivas  like  mad  ! 

Here  's  the  Pope  in  his  holiday  right 
eousness  clad, 

From  shorn  crown  to  toe-nail,  kiss-worn 
to  the  quick, 

Of  sainthood  in  purple  the  pattern  and 
pick, 

Who  the  rdle  of  the  priest  and  the  sol 
dier  unites, 

And,  praying  like  Aaron,  like  Joshua 
fights ! 

Is   this   Pio   Nono    the    gracious,    for 

whom 
We  sang  our  hosannas  and  lighted  all 

Rome  ; 
With  whose   advent  we  dreamed  the 

new  era  began 


When  the  priest  should  be  human,  the 

monk  be  a  man? 
Ah,  the  wolf 's  with  the  sheep,  and  the 

fox  with  the  fowl, 
When  freedom  we  trust  to  the  crozier 

and  cowl  ! 

Stand  aside,  men  of  Rome  !  Here  's  a 
hangman-faced  Swiss  — 

(A  blessing  for  him  surely  can't  go 
amiss)  — 

Would  kneel  down  the  sanctified  slip 
per  to  kiss. 

Short  shrift  will  suffice  him,  — he  's  blest 
beyond  doubt ; 

But  there  's  blood  on  his  hands  which 
would  scarcely  wash  out, 

Though  Peter  himself  held  the  baptis 
mal  spout ! 

Make    way    for    the    next !      Here  's 

another  sweet  son  ! 
What 's   this   mastifT-jawed    rascal    in 

epaulets  done  ? 
He  did,  whispers  rumor,  (its  truth  God 

forbid  ! ) 
At  Perugia  what  Herod  at  Bethlehem 

did. 
And  the  mothers  ?  —  Don't  name  them  ! 

—  these  humors  of  war 
They  who  keep  him  in   service   must 

pardon  him  for. 

Hist !  here  's  the  arch-knave  in  a  car 
dinal's  hat, 

With  the  heart  of  a  wolf,  and  the  stealth 
of  a  cat 

(As  if  Judas  and  Herod  together  were 
rolled), 

Who  keeps,  all  as  one,  the  Pope's  con 
science  and  gold, 

Mounts  guard  on  the  altar,  and  pilfers 
from  thence, 

And  natters  St.  Peter  while  stealing 
his  pence  ! 

Who  doubts  Antonelli  ?  Have  mira 
cles  ceased 

When  robbers  say  mass,  and  Barabbas 
is  priest? 

When  the  Church  eats  and  drinks,  at 
its  mystical  board, 

The  true  flesh  and  blood  carved  and 
shed  by  its  sword, 


FOR   AN  AUTUMN  FESTIVAL. 


When  its  martyr,  unsinged,  claps  the 

crown  on  his  head, 
And  roasts,  as  his  proxy,  his  neighbor 

instead  ! 

There  !    the  bells  jow  and  jangle  the 

same  blessed  way 
That    they   did  when    they   rang    for 

Bartholomew's  day. 
Hark !  the  tallow-faced  monsters,  nor 

women  nor  boys, 
Vex  the  air  with  a  shrill,  sexless  horror 

of  noise. 
Te    Deum    landamus  I  —  All    round 

without  stint 
The  incense-pot  swings  with  a  taint  of 

blood  in't ! 

And  now  for  the  blessing !     Of  little 

account, 
You  know,  is  the  old  one  they  heard 

on  the  Mount. 
Its  giver  was  landless,  his  raiment  was 

poor, 

No  jewelled  tiara  his  fishermen  wore  ; 
No  incense,  no  lackeys,  no  riches,  no 

home, 
No  Swiss  guards!  —  We  order  things 

better  at  Rome. 

So  bless  us  the  strong  hand,  and  curse 

us  the  weak  ; 
Let  Austria's  vulture  have  food  for  her 

beak; 
Let   the  wolf- whelp    of   Naples    play 

Bpmba  again, 
With   his    death-cap    of   silence,    and 

halter,  and  chain  ; 
Put    reason,    and    justice,    and    truth 

under  ban  ; 
For  the  sin  unforgiven  is  freedom  for 

man  ! 


FOR  AN  AUTUMN  FESTIVAL. 

THE  Persian's  flowery  gifts,  the  shrine 
Of  fruitful  Ceres,  charm  no  more  ; 

The  woven  wreaths  of  oak  and  pine 
Are  dust  along  the  Isthmian  shore. 

But  beauty  hath  its  homage  still, 
And  nature  holds  us  still  in  debt ; 

And  woman's  grace  and  household  skill, 
And  manhood's  toil,  are  honored  yet. 


And  we,  to-day,  amidst  our  flowers 
And  fruits,  have  come  to  own  again 

The  blessings  of  the  summer  hours, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain  ; 

To  see  our  Father's  hand  once  more 
Reverse  for  us  the  plenteous  horn 

Of  autumn,  filled  and  running  o'er 
With  fruit,  and  flower,  and  golden 
corn  1 

Once  more  the  liberal  year  laughs  out 
O'er  richer  stores  than  gems  or  gold  ; 

Once  more  with  harvest-song  and  shout 
Is  Nature's  bloodless  triumph  told. 

Our  common  mother  rests  and  sings, 
Like    Ruth,    among    her    garnered 

sheaves ; 

Her  lap  is  full  of  goodly  things, 
Her  brow    is    bright  with    autumn 
leaves. 

O  favors  every  year  made  new  ! 

O  gifts  with  rain  and  sunshine  sent ! 
The  bounty  overruns  our  due, 

The  fulness  shames  our  discontent. 

We  shut  our  eyes,  the  flowers  bloom  on ; 

We  murmur,  but  the  corn-ears  fill ; 
We  choose  the  shadow,  but  the  sun 

That  casts  it  shines  behind  us  still. 

God  gives  us  with  our  rugged  soil 
The  power  to  make  it  Eden-fair, 

And  richer  fruits  to  crown  our  toil 
Than  summer-wedded  islands  bear. 

Who  murmurs  at  his  lot  to-day  ? 

Whoscornshis  native  fruit  and  bloom? 
Or  sighs  for  dainties  far  away, 

Beside  the  bounteous  board  of  home  ? 

Thank  Heaven,  instead,  that  Freedom's 
arm 

Can  change  a  rocky  soil  to  gold,  — 
That  brave  and  generous  lives  can  warm 

A  clime  with  northern  ices  cold. 

And   let    these    altars,  wreathed  with 
flowers 

And  piled  with  fruits,  awake  again 
Thanksgivings  for  the  golden  hours, 

The  early  and  the  latter  rain  ! 


IN    WAR    TIME, 


1863. 


TO 

SAMUEL  E.    SEWALL 

AND 

HARRIET   W.    SEWALL, 

OF  MELROSE. 

OLOR  ISCANUS  queries  :  "  Why  should  we 

Vex  at  the  land's  ridiculous  miserie  ? " 

So  on  his  Usk  banks,  in  the  blood-red  dawn 

Of  England's  civil  strife,  did  careless  Vaughan 

Bemock  his  times.     O  friends  of  many  years  ! 

Though  faith  and  trust  are  stronger  than  our  fears, 

And  the  signs  promise  peace  with  liberty, 

Not  thus  we  trifle  with  our  country's  tears 

And  sweat  of  agony.     The  future's  gain 

Is  certain  as  God's  truth  ;  but,  meanwhile,  pain 

Is  bitter  and  tears  are  salt  :  our  voices  take 

A  sober  tone  ;  our  very  household  songs 

Are  heavy  with  a  nation's  griefs  and  wrongs ; 

And  innocent  mirth  is  chastened  for  the  sake 

Of  the  brave  hearts  that  nevermore  shall  beat, 

The  eyes  that  smile  no  more,  the  unreturning  feet  I 


IN    WAR    TIME. 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE. 

WE  see  not,  know  not ;  all  our  way 
Is  night,  — with  Thee  alone  is  day: 
From  out  the  torrent's  troubled  drift, 
Above  the  storm  our  prayers  we  lift, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

The  flesh  may  fail,  the  heart  may  faint, 
But  who  are  we  to  make  complaint, 
Or  dare  to  plead,  in  times  like  these, 
The  weakness  of  our  love  of  ease  ? 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

We  take  with  solemn  thankfulness 
Our  burden  up,  nor  ask  it  less, 
And  count  it  joy  that  even  we 
May  suffer,  serve,  or  wait  for  Thee, 
Whose  will  be  done  ! 

Though  dim  as  yet  in  tint  and  line, 
We  trace  Thy  picture's  wise  design. 
And  thank  Thee  that  our  age  supplies 
Its  dark  relief  of  sacrifice. 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

And  if,  in  our  unworthiness, 
Thy  sacrificial  wine  we  press  ; 
If  from  Thy  ordeal's  heated  bars 
Our  feet  are  seamed  with  crimson  scars, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

If,  for  the  age  to  come,  this  hour 
Of  trial  hath  vicarious  power, 
And,  blest  by  Thee,  our  present  pain, 
Be  Liberty's  eternal  gain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

Strike,  Thou  the  Master,  we  Thy  keys, 
The  anthem  of  the  destinies  ! 
The  minor  of  Thy  loftier  strain, 
Our  hearts  shall  breathe  the  old  refrain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 


A  WORD  FOR  THE  HOUR. 

THE  firmament  breaks  up.  In  black 
eclipse 

Light  after  light  goes  out.  One  evil 
star, 

Luridly  glaring  through  the  smoke  oi 
war, 

As  in  the  dream  of  the  Apocalypse, 

Drags  others  down.  Let  us  not  weakly 
weep 

Nor  rashly  threaten.  Give  us  grace  to 
keep 

Our  faith  and  patience ;  wherefore 
should  we  leap 

On  one  hand  into  fratricidal  fight, 

Or,  on  the  other,  yield  eternal  right, 

Frame  lies  of  law,  and  good  and  ill  con 
found  ? 

What  fear  we  ?  Safe  on  freedom's  van 
tage-ground 

Our  feet  are  planted :  let  us  there  remain. 

In  unreyengeful  calm,  no  means  un 
tried 

Which  truth  can  sanction,  no  just  claim 
denied, 

The  sad  spectators  of  a  suicide  ! 

They  break  the  links  of  Union  :  shall 
we  light 

The  fires  of  hell  to  weld  anew  the  chain 

On  that  red  anvil  where  each  blow  is 
pain? 

Draw  we  not  even  now  a  freer  breath, 

As  from  our  shoulders  falls  a  load  of 
death 

Loathsome  as  that  the  Tuscan's  victim 
bore 

When  keen  with  life  to  a  dead  horror 
bound  ? 

Why  take  we  up  the  accursed  thing 
again  ? 


320 


IN  WAR    TIME. 


Pity,  forgive,  but  urge  them  back  no 
more 

Who,  drunk  with  passion,  flaunt  dis 
union's  rag 

With  its  vile  reptile-blazon.  Let  us 
press 

The  golden  cluster  on  our  brave  old 
flag 

In  closer  union,  and,  if  numbering  less, 

Brighter  shall  shine  the  stars  which  still 
remain. 

ibth  \st  mo.,  1861. 


"EIN  FESTE    BURG    1ST    UN- 
SER  GOTT." 

(LUTHER'S   HYMN.) 

WE  wait  beneath  the  furnace-blast 

The  pangs  of  transformation  ; 
Not  painlessly  doth  God  recast 
And  mould  anew  the  nation. 
Hot  burns  the  fire 
Where  wrongs  expire ; 
Nor  spares  the  hand 
That  from  the  land 
Uproots  the  ancient  evil. 

The  hand-breadth  cloud  the  sages  feared 

Its  bloody  rain  is  dropping  ; 
The  poison  plant  the  fathers  spared 
All  else  is  overtopping. 
East,  West,  South,  North, 
It  curses  the  earth  ; 
All  justice  dies, 
And  fraud  and  lies 
Live  only  in  its  shadow. 

What  gives  the  wheat-field  blades  of 

steel ? 

What  points  the  rebel  cannon  ? 
What  sets  the  roaring  rabble's  heel 
On  the  old  star-spangled  pennon  ? 
What  breaks  the  oath 
Of  the  men  o'  the  South? 
What  whets  the  knife 
For  the  Union's  life  ?  — 
Hark  to  the  answer  :  Slavery  ! 

Then  waste  no  blows  on  lesser  foes 
In  strife  unworthy  freemen. 


God  lifts  to-day  the  veil,  and  shows 
The  features  of  the  demon  ! 

O  North  and  South, 

Its  victims  both, 

Can  ye  not  cry, 

"  Let  slavery  die  !  " 
And  union  find  in  freedom  ? 

What  though  the  cast-put  spirit  tear 

The  nation  in  his  going? 
We  who  have  shared  the  guilt  must 

share 

The  pang  of  his  o'erthrowing  ! 
Whate'er  the  loss, 
Whate'er  the  cross, 
Shall  they  complain 
Of  present  pain 
Who  trust  in  God's  hereafter  ? 

For  who  that  leans  on  His  right  arm 

Was  ever  yet  forsaken  ? 
What  righteous  cause  can  suffer  harm 
If  He  its  part  has  taken  ? 
Though  wild  and  loud 
And  dark  the  cloud, 
Behind  its  folds 
His  hand  upholds 
The  calm  sky  of  to-morrow  ! 

Above  the  maddening  cry  for  blood, 

Above  the  wild  war-drumming, 
Let  Freedom's  voice   be   heard,   wi'ATl 

good 

The  evil  overcoming. 
Give  prayer  and  purse 
To  stay  the  Curse 
Whose  wrong  we  share, 
Whose  shame  we  bear, 
Whose  end  shall  gladden  Heaven  ! 

In  vain  the  bells  of  war  shall  ring 

Of  triumphs  and  revenges, 
While  still  is  spared  the  evil  thing 
That  severs  and  estranges. 
But  blest  the  ear 
That  yet  shall  hear 
The  jubilant  bell 
That  rings  the  knell 
Of  Slavery  forever  ! 

Then  let  the  selfish  lip  be  dumb, 
And  hushed  the  breath  of  sighing; 

Before  the  joy  of  peace  must  come 
The  pains  of  purifying. 


THE    WATCHERS. 


God  give  us  grace 
Each  in  his  place 
To  bear  his  lot, 
And,  murmuring  not, 
Endure  and  wait  and  labor  ! 


TO  JOHN   C.    FREMONT. 

THY  error,  Fremont,  simply  was  to  act 

A  brave  man's  part,  without  the  states 
man's  tact, 

And,  taking  counsel  but  of  common 
sense, 

To  strike  at  cause  as  well  as  conse 
quence. 

O,  never  yet  since  Roland  wound  his 
horn 

At  Roncesvalles,  has  a  blast  been  blown 

Far-heard,  wide-echoed,  startling  as 
thine  own, 

Heard  from  the  van  of  freedom's  hope 
forlorn  ! 

Ithadbeen  safer,  doubtless,  for  thetime, 

To  flatter  treason,  and  avoid  offence 

To  that  Dark  Power  whose  underlying 
crime 

Heaves  upward  its  perpetual  turbu 
lence. 

But  if  thine  be  the  fate  of  all  who  break 

The  ground  for  truth's  seed,  or  forerun 
their  years 

Till  lost  in  distance,  or  with  stout  hearts 
make 

A  lane  for  freedom  through  the  level 
spears, 

Still  take  thou  courage  !  God  has 
spoken  through  thee, 

Irrevocable,  the  mighty  words,  Be  free  ! 

The  land  shakes  with  them,  and  the 
slave's  dull  ear 

Turns  from  the  rice-swamp  stealthily  to 
hear. 

Who  would  recall  them  now  must  first 
arrest 

The  winds  that  blow  down  from  the  free 
Northwest, 

Ruffling  the  Gulf;  or  like  a  scroll  roll 
back 

The  Mississippi  to  its  upper  springs. 

Such  words  fulfil  their  prophecy,  and 
lack 

But  the  full  time  to  harden  into  things. 


THE  WATCHERS. 

BESIDE  a  stricken  field  I  stood  ; 
On  the  torn  turf,  on  grass  and  wood, 
Hung  heavily  the  dew  of  blood. 

Still  in  their  fresh  mounds  lay  the  slain, 
But  all  the  air  was  quick  with  pain 
And  gusty  sighs  and  tearful  rain. 

Two  angels,  each  with  drooping  head 
And  folded  wings  and  noiseless  tread, 
Watched  by  that  valley  of  the  dead. 

The  one,  with  forehead  saintly  bland 
And  lips  of  blessing,  not  command, 
Leaned,  weeping,  on  her  olive  wand. 

The  other's  brows  were   scarred  and 

knit, 

His  restless  eyes  were  watch-fires  lit, 
His  hands  for  battle-gauntlets  fit. 

"How  long!" — I  knew  the  voice  of 

Peace,  — 

"  Is  there  no  respite?  —  no  release?  — 
When  shall  the  hopeless  quarrel  cease? 

"O   Lord,   how  long!  —  One   human 

soul 

Is  more  than  any  parchment  scroll, 
Or  any  flag  thy  winds  unroll. 

"What  price  was    Ellsworth's,  young 

and  brave  ? 

How  weigh  the  gift  that  Lyon  gave, 
Or  count  the  cost  of  Winthrop's  grave  ? 

"O  brother!  if  thine  eye  can  see, 
Tell  how  and  when  the  end  shall  be, 
What  hope  remains  for  thee  and  me." 

Then  Freedom  sternly  said  :  "  I  shun 
No  strife  nor  pang  beneath  the  sun, 
When  human  rights  are  staked  and  won. 

"  I  knelt  with  Ziska's  hunted  flock, 
I  watched  in  Toussaint's  cell  of  rock, 
I  walked  with  Sidney  to  the  block. 

"  The  moor  of  Marston  felt  my  tread, 
Through  Jersey  snows  the  march  1  led, 
My  voice  Magenta's  charges  sped. 


322 


IN  WAR    TIME. 


"  But    now,   through    weary  day  and 

night, 

I  watch  a  vague  and  aimless  fight 
For  leave  to  strike  one  blow  aright. 

"  On  either  side  my  foe  they  own  : 
One  guards  through  love  his  ghastly 

throne, 
And  one  through    fear   to    reverence 

grown. 

"Why  wait  we  longer,   mocked,   be 
trayed, 

By  open  foes,  or  those  afraid 
To  speed  thy  coming  through  my  aid  ? 

"  Why  watch  to  see  who  win  or  fall  ?  — 

I  shake  the  dust  against  them  all, 

I  leave  them  to  their  senseless  brawl." 

"Nay,"  Peace  implored:  "yet  longer 

wait ; 

The  doom  is  near,  the  stake  is  great : 
God  knoweth  if  it  be  too  late. 

"  Still  wait  and  watch  ;  the  way  prepare 
Where  I  with  folded  wings  of  prayer 
May  follow,  weaponless  and  bare." 

"  Too  late  ! "  the  stern,  sad  voice  re 
plied, 

"Too  late  !  "  its  mournful  echo  sighed, 
In  low  lament  the  answer  died, 

A  rustling  as  of  wings  in  flight, 

An  upward  gleam  of  lessening  white, 

So  passed  the  vision,  sound  and  sight. 

But  round  me,  like  a  silver  bell 
Rung  down  the  listening  sky  to  tell 
Of  holy  help,  a  sweet  voice  fell. 

"Still  hope  and  trust,"  it  sang;  "the 

rod 

Must  fall,  the  wine-press  must  be  trod, 
But  all  is  possible  with  God  1 " 


TO   ENGLISHMEN. 

You  flung  your  taunt  across  the  wave ; 
We  bore  it  as  became  us, 


Well  knowing  that  the  fettered  slave 
Left  friendly  lips  no  option  save 
To  pity  or  to  blame  us. 

You  scoffed  our  plea.     "Mere  lack  of 
will, 

Not  lack  of  power,"  you  told  us  : 
We  showed  our  free-sta'te  records ;  still 
You  mocked,  confounding  good  and  ill, 

Slave-haters  and  slaveholders. 

We  struck  at  Slavery  ;  to  the  verge 
Of  power  and  means  we  checked  it ; 

Lo  !  —  presto,  change  !   its  claims  you 
urge. 

Send  greetings  to  it  o'er  the  surge, 
And  comfort  and  protect  it. 

But  yesterday  you  scarce  could  shake, 

In  slave-abhorring  rigor, 
Our   Northern   palms  for  conscience* 

sake  : 
To-day  you  clasp  the  hands  that  ache 

With  "  walloping  the  nigger  !  "  71 

O  Englishmen  !  —  in  hope  and  creed, 
In  blood  and  tongue  our  brothers  ! 

We  too  are  heirs  of  Runnymede  ; 

And   Shakespeare's   fame  and   Crom 
well's  deed 
Are  not  alone  our  mother's. 

"  Thicker  than  water,"  in  one  rill 

Through  centuries  of  story 
Our  Saxon  blood  has  flowed,  and  still 
We  share  with  you  its  good  and  ill, 

The  shadow  and  the  glory. 

Joint  heirs  and  kinfolk,  leagues  of  wave 

Nor  length  of  years  can  part  us  : 
Your  right  is  ours  to  shrine  and  grave, 
The  common  freehold  of  the  brave, 
The  gift  of  saints  and  martyrs. 

Our  very  sins  and  follies  teach 

Our  kindred  frail  and  human  : 
We  carp  at  faults  with  bitter  speech, 
The  while  for  one  unshared  by  each, 
We  have  a  score  in  common. 

We  bowed  the  henrt,  if  not  the  knee, 
To  England's  Queen,  God  bless  her ! 


ASTR^A    AT  THE   CAPITOL. 


323 


We  praised  you  when  your  slaves  went 

free  : 

We  seek  to  unchain  ours.     Will  ve 
Join  hands  with  the  oppressor? 

And  is  it  Christian  England  cheers 

The  bruiser,  not  the  bruised? 
And  must  she  run,  despite  the  tears 
And  prayers  of  eighteen  hundred  years, 
A  muck  in  Slavery's  crusade  ? 

O  black  disgrace  !  O  shame  and  loss 
Too  deep  for  tongue  to  phrase  on  ! 
Tear  from  your  flag  its  holy  cross, 
And  in  your  van  of  battle  toss 
The  pirate's  skull-bone  blazon  ! 


ASTRJEA  AT  THE  CAPITOL. 

ABOLITION   OF   SLAVERY    IN    THE   DIS 
TRICT  OF  COLUMBIA,   1862. 

WHEN  first  I  saw  our  banner  wave 
Above  the  nation's  council-hall, 
I  heard  beneath  its  marble  wall 

The  clanking  fetters  of  the  slave  ! 

In  the  foul  market-place  I  stood, 
And  saw  the  Christian  mother  sold, 
And  childhood  with  its  locks  of  gold, 

Blue-eyed  and  fair  with  Saxon  blood. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  I  held  my  breath, 
And,    smothering    down    the   wrath 

and  shame 

That  set  my  Northern  blood  aflame, 
Stood  silent,  —  where  to    speak  was 
death. 

Beside  me  gloomed  the  prison-cell 
Where  wasted  one  in  slow  decline 
For  uttering  simple  words  of  mine, 

And  loving  freedom  all  too  well. 

The  flag  that  floated  from  the  dome 
Flapped  menace  in  the  morning  air; 
I  stood  a  perilled  stranger  where 

The  human  broker  made  his  home. 

For  crime  was  virtue  :  Gown  and  Sword 
And   Law  their   threefold    sanction 
gave, 


And  to  the  quarry  of  the  slave 
Went  hawking  with  our  symbol-bird. 

On  the  oppressor's  side  was  power  ; 
And  yet  1  knew  that  every  wrong, 
However  old,  however  strong, 

But  waited  God's  avenging  hour. 

I  knew  that  truth  would  crush  the  lie, — 
Somehow,  some  time,  the  end  would 

be; 
Yet  scarcely  dared  I  hope  to  see 

The  triumph  with  my  mortal  eye. 

But  now  I  see  it !     In  the  sun 

A  free  flag  floats  from  yonder  dome, 
And  at  the  nation's  hearth  and  home 

The  justice  long  delayed  is  done. 

Not  as  we  hoped,  in  calm  of  prayer, 
The  message  of  deliverance  comes, 
But  heralded  by  roll  of  drums 

On  waves  of  battle-troubled  air  !  — 

Midst  sounds  that  madden  and  appall, 
The   song  that    Bethlehem's   shep 
herds  knew  ! 
The  harp  of  David  melting  through 

The  demon-agonies  of  Saul ! 

Not  as  we  hoped  ;  —  but  what  are  we  ? 
Above  our  broken  dreams  and  plans 
God  lays,  with  wiser  hand  than  man's, 

The  corner-stones  of  liberty. 

I  cavil  not  with  Him  :  the  voice 
That  freedom's  blessed  gospel  tells 
Is  sweet  to  me  as  silver  bells, 

Rejoicing  !  —  yea,  I  will  rejoice  ! 

Dear  friends  still  toiling  in  the  sun,  — 
Ye  dearer  ones  who,  gone  before, 
Are  watching  from  the  eternal  shore 

The  slow  work  by  your  hands  begun, — 

Rejoice  with  me  !  The  chastening  rod 
Blossoms  with  love  ;  the  furnace  heat 
Grows  cool  beneath  His  blessed  feet 

Whose  form  is  as  the  Son  of  God  ! 

Rejoice  !     Our  Marah's  bitter  springs 
Are  sweetened  :  on  our  ground  of  grief 
Rise  day  by  day  in  strong  relief 

The  prophecies  of  better  things. 


324 


IN   WAR    TIME. 


Rejoice  in  hope  !    The  day  and  night 
Are   one   with   God,    and   one  with 

them 

Who  see  by  faith  the  cloudy  hem 
Of  Judgment    fringed  with    Mercy's 
light  ! 


THE  BATTLE   AUTUMN  OF 

1862. 

THE  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly, 
The  charging  trumpets  blow; 

Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky, 
No  earthquake  strives  below. 

And,  calm  and  patient,  Nature  keeps 

Her  ancient  promise  well, 
Though  o'er  her  bloom  and  greenness 
sweeps 

The  battle's  breath  of  hell. 

And  still  she  walks  in  golden  hours 
Through  harvest-happy  farms, 

And  still  she  wears  her  fruits  and  flowers 
Like  jewels  on  her  arms. 

What  mean  the  gladness  of  the  plain, 

This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 
The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard  of  grain 

And  yellow  locks  of  corn  ? 

Ah  !  eyes  may  well  be  full  of  tears, 
And  hearts  with  hate  are  hot ; 

But  even-paced  come  round  the  years, 
And  Nature  changes  not. 

She  meets  with  smiles  our  bitter  grief, 
With  songs  our  groans  of  pain  ; 

She  mocks  with  tint  of  flower  and  leaf 
The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 

Still,  in  the  cannon's  pause,  we  hear 
Her  sweet  thanksgiving-psalm ; 

Too  near  to  God  for  doubt  or  fear, 
She  shares  the  eternal  calm. 

She  knows  the  seed  lies  safe  below 
The  fires  that  blast  and  burn  ; 

For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow 
She  waits  the  rich  return. 

She  sees  with  clearer  eye  than  ours 
The  good  of  suffering  born,  — 


The  hearts  that  blossom  like  her  flowers, 
And  ripen  like  her  corn. 

O,  give  to  us,  in  times  likes  these, 

The  vision  of  her  eyes  ; 
And  make  her  fields  and  fruited  trees 

Our  golden  prophecies  ! 

O,  give  to  us  her  finer  ear  ! 

Above  this  stormy  din, 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 

Ring  peace  and  freedom  in  ! 


MITHRIDATES  AT   CHIOS.72 

KNOW'ST    thou,    O    slave-cursed 

land! 

How,  when  the  Chian's  cup  of  guilt 
Was  full  to  overflow,  there  came 
God's  justice  in  the  sword  of  flame 
That,  red  with  slaughter  to  its  hilt, 
Blazed    in    the    Cappadocian    victor's 
hand? 

The  heavens  are  still  and  far ; 
But,  not  unheard  of  awful  Jove, 
The  sighing  of  the  island  slave 
Was  answered,  when  the  ^Egean 

wave 

The  keels  of  Mithridates  clove, 
And  the  vines  shrivelled  in  the  breath 
of  war. 

"  Robbers  of  Chios  !  hark," 
The  victor  cried,  "  to  Heaven's  de 
cree  ! 
Pluck  your  last  cluster  from   the 

vine, 

Drain  your  last  cup  of  Chian  wine  ; 
Slaves  of  your  slaves,  your  doom  shall 

be, 

In  Colchian   mines  by  Phasis  rolling 
dark." 

Then  rose  the  long  lament 
From  the  hoar  sea-god's  dusky  caves: 
The   priestess   rent   her  hair  and 

cried, 

"  Woe  !  woe  !    The  gods  are  sleep 
less-eyed  !  " 
And,  chained  and  scourged,  the  slaves 

of  slaves, 
The  lords  of  Chics  into  exile  went. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 


325 


"  The  gods  at  last  pay  well," 
So  Hellas  sang  her  taunting  song, 
"  The  fisher  in  his  net  is  caught, 
The  Chian  hath  his  master  bought " ; 
And  isle  from  isle,  with  laughter  long, 
Took  up  and  sped  the  mocking  parable. 

Once  more  the  slow,  dumb  years 
Bring  their  avenging  cycle  round, 
And,  more  than  Hellas  taught  of 

old, 

Our  wiser  lesson  shall  be  told, 
Of  slaves  uprising,  freedom-crowned, 
To  break,  not  wield,  the  scourge  wet 
with  their  blood  and  tears. 


THE   PROCLAMATION. 

SAINT  PATRICK,  slave  to  Milcho  of 

the  herds 
Of   Ballymena,   wakened    with    these 

words  : 

"  Arise,  and  flee 
Out  from  the  land  of  bondage,  and  be 

free ! " 

Glad  as  a  soul  in  pain,  who  hears  from 

heaven 
The  angels  singing  of  his  sins  forgiven, 

And,  wondering,  sees 
His  prison  opening  to  their  golden  keys, 

He  rose  a  man  who  laid  him  down  a 

slave. 
Shook  from  his  locks  the  ashes  of  the 

grave, 

And  outward  trod 
Into  the  glorious  liberty  of  God. 

He  cast  the  symbols  of  his  shame  away; 
And,  passing  where  the  sleeping  Milcho 

lay, 

Though  back  and  limb 
Smarted  with  wrong,  he  prayed,  "  God 

pardon  him  !  " 

So  went  he  forth  ;  but  in  God's  time 

he  came 
To  light  on  Uilline's  hills  a  holy  flame  ; 

And,  dying,  gave 
The  land  a  saint  that  lost  him  as  a  slave. 


O  dark,  sad  millions,  patiently  and  dumb 
Waiting  for  God,  your  hour,  at  last,  has 

come, 

And  freedom's  song 
Breaks  the  long  silence  of  your  night 
of  wrong ! 

Arise  and  flee  !  shake  off  the  vile  re 
straint 

Of  ages;  but,  like  Ballymena's  saint, 
The  oppressor  spare, 

Heap  only  on  his  head  the  coals  of 
prayer. 

Go  forth,   like  him  !    like  him  return 
again, 

To  bless   the   land  whereon   in  bitter 

pain 
Ye  toiled  at  first, 

And  heal  with  freedom  what  your  slav 
ery  cursed. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

[Read  before  the  Alumni  of  the  Friends' 
Yearly  Meeting  School,  at  the  Annual 
Meeting  at  Newport,  R.  I.,  15th  Gth  mo., 
18(53.] 

ONCE  more,    dear  friends,   you    meet 
beneath 

A  clouded  sky : 

Not  yet  the  sword  has  found  its  sheath, 
And  on  the  sweet  spring  airs  the  breath 

Of  war  floats  by. 

Yet  trouble  springs  not  from  the  ground, 

Nor  pain  from  chance  ; 
The  Eternal  order  circles  round, 
And  wave   and  storm  find  mete  and 
bound 

In  Providence. 

Full  long  our  feet  the  flowery  ways 

Of  peace  have  trod, 
Content    with    creed    and    garb    and 

phrase  : 
A  harder  path  in  earlier  days 

Led  up  to  God. 

Too    cheaply  truths',   once   purchased 

dear, 
Are  made  our  own ; 


326 


IN  WAR    TIME. 


Too  long  the  world  has  smiled  to  hear 
Our  boast  of  full  corn  in  the  ear 
By  others  sown ; 

To  see  us  stir  the  martyr  fires 

Of  long  ago, 

And  wrap  our  satisfied  desires 
In  the  singed  mantles  that  our  sires 

Have  dropped  below. 

But  now  the  cross  our  worthies  bore 

On  us  is  laid  ; 

Profession's  quiet  sleep  is  o'er, 
And  in  the  scale  of  truth  once  more 

Our  faith  is  weighed. 

The  cry  of  innocent  blood  at  last 

Is  calling  down 

An  answer  in  the  whirlwind-blast, 
The  thunder  and  the  shadow  cast 

From  Heaven's  dark  frown. 

The  land  is  red  with  judgments.     Who 

Stands  guiltless  forth  ? 
Have  we  been  faithful  as  we  knew, 
To  God  and  to  our  brother  true, 

To  Heaven  and  Earth  ? 

How  faint,  through  din  of  merchandise 

And  count  of  gain, 

Have  seemed  to  us  the  captive's  cries  ! 
How  far  away  the  tears  and  sighs 

Of  souls  in  pain  ! 

This  day  the  fearful  reckoning  comes 

To  each  and  all  ; 

We  hear  amidst  our  peaceful  homes 
The  summons  of  the  conscript  drums, 

The  bugle's  call. 

Our  path  is  plain  ;  the  war-net  draws 

Round  us  in  vain, 

While,  faithful  to  the  Higher  Cause, 
We  keep  our  fealty  to  the  laws 

Through  patient  pain. 

The  levelled  gun,  the  battle-brand, 

We  may  not  take  : 
But,  calmly  loyal,  we  can  stand 
And  suffer  with  our  suffering  land 

For  conscience'  sake. 

Why  ask  for  ease  where  all  is  pain  ? 
Shall  we  alone 


Be  left  to  add  our  gain  to  gain, 
When  over  Armageddon's  plain 
The  trump  is  blown  ? 

To  suffer  well  is  well  to  serve  ; 

Safe  in  our  Lord 
The  rigid  lines  of  law  shall  curve 
To   spare   us ;    from   our  heads   shall 
swerve 

Its  smiting  sword. 

And  light  is  mingled  with  the  gloom, 

And  joy  with  grief; 
Divinest  compensations  come, 
Through  thorns  of  judgment  mercies 
bloom 

In  sweet  relief. 

Thanks  for  our  privilege  to  bless, 

By  word  and  deed, 
The  widow  in  her  keen  distress, 
The  childless  and  the  fatherless, 

The  hearts  that  bleed  ! 

For  fields  of  duty,  opening  wide, 

Where  all  our  powers 
Are  tasked  the  eager  steps  to  guide 
Of  millions  on  a  path  untried  : 

THE  SLAVE  is  OURS  ! 

Ours  by  traditions  dear  and  old, 

Which  make  the  race 
Our  wards  to  cherish  and  uphold, 
And  cast  their  freedom  in  the  mould 

Of  Christian  grace. 

And  we  may  tread  the  sick-bed  floors 

Where  .strong  men  pine, 
And,  down  the  groaning  corridors, 
Pour  freely  from  our  liberal  stores 

The  oil  and  wine. 

Who  murmurs  that  in  these  dark  days 

His  lot  is  cast  ? 

God's  hand  within  the  shadow  lays 
The  stones  whereon  His  gates  of  praise 

Shall  rise  at  last. 

Turn    and    o'erturn,    O     outstretched 
Hand! 

Nor  stint,  nor  stay  ; 
The  years  have  never  dropped  their  sand 
On  mortal  issue  vast  and  grand 

As  ours  to-day. 


AT  PORT  ROYAL. 


327 


Already,  on  the  sable  ground 

Of  man's  despair 

Is  Freedom's  glorious  picture  found, 
With  all  its  dusky  hands  unbound 

Upraised  in  prayer. 

O,  small  shall  seem  all  sacrifice 

And  pain  and  loss, 

When  God  shall  wipe  the  weeping  eyes, 
For  suffering  give  the  victor's  prize, 

The  crown  for  cross  1 


AT   PORT  ROYAL. 

THE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 
The  ship-lights  on  the  sea  ; 

The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting 

sand 
Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing  ; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide, 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song  : 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong ; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please  ; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 
Has  filled  the  West  with  light, 

Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre 
Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 
The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast ; 

From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to  gate, 
The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 
Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles  : 

Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 
That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 
They  weave  in  simple  lays 


The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 
The  hope  of  better  days, — 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 
The  joy  of  uncaged  birds  : 

Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 
Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


SONG  OF   THE  NEGRO   BOATMEN- 

O,  praise  an'  tanks  !  De  Lord  he  come 

To  set  de  people  free  ; 
An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 
De  Lord  dat  heap  de  Red  Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den  ; 
He  say  de  word  :  we  las'  night  slaves  ; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  freemen. 
De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you 

hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  1 

Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone  ; 

He  leaf  de  land  behind  : 
De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on,    • 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold  ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you 

hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  pray  de  Lord  :  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free  ; 
De  norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea  ; 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell  ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream  ; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
De  eagle  when  he  scream. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you 

hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 


328 


IN  WAR   TIME. 


We  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 

An'  nebber  lie  de  word  ; 
So  like  de  'postles  in  de  jail, 

We  waited  for  de  Lord  : 
An'  now  he  open  ebery  door, 

An'  trow  away  de  key  ; 
He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before, 
We  lub  him  better  free. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

He  '11  gib  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you 

hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 


So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers  ; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny  ; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song;   each  swarthy 
face, 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still  : 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill ; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 

Oppressor  with  oppressed  ; 
And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 

We  march  to  Fate  abreast. 

Singon,poorhearts  !  your  chant  shall  be 
Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom,  — 

The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 
Or  death-rune  of  our  doom  ! 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE. 

UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 


Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  hordt^ 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain' 
wall,  — 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 
She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled 
down  ; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced  ;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt  !"  —  the  dust-brown  ranks  stood 

fast. 
"  Fire  !  "  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash  ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash, 

guick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
ame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came  ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word : 


COBBLER  KEEZAFS   VISION. 


329 


"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !  March  on  !  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the.  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 


Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 
And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no 
more. 

Honor  to  her  !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave  ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law  ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town  ! 


BALLADS. 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S  VISION.™ 

THE  beaver  cut  his-timber 
With  patient  teeth  that  day, 

The   minks  were  fish- wards,  and  the 

crows 
Surveyors  of  highway,  — 

When  Keezar  sat  on  the  hillside 

Upon  his  cobbler's  form, 
With  a  pan  of  coals  on  either  hand 

To  keep  his  waxed-ends  warm. 

And  there,  in  the  golden  weather, 
He  stitched  and  hammered  and  sung  ; 

In  the  brook  he  moistened  his  leather, 
In  the  pewter  mug  his  tongue. 

Well  knew  the  tough  old  Teuton 
Who  brewed  the  stoutest  ale, 

And  he  paid  the  goodwife's  reckoning 
In  the  coin  of  song  and  tale. 

The  songs  they  still  are  singing 
Who  dress  the  hills  of  vine, 

The  tales  that  haunt  the  Brocken 
And  whisper  down  the  Rhine. 

Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 
The  swift  stream  wound  away, 

Through  birches  and  scarlet  maples 
Flashing  in  foam  and  spray,  — 


Down  on  the  sharp-horned  ledges 

Plunging  in  steep  cascade, 
Tossing  its  white-maned  waters 

Against  the  hemlock's  shade. 

Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 
East  and  west  and  north  and  south  ; 

Only  the  village  of  fishers 
Down  at  the  river's  mouth  ; 

Only  here  and  there  a  clearing, 
With  its  farm-house  rude  and  new, 

And  tree-stumps,  swart  as  Indians, 
Where  the  scanty  harvest  grew. 

No  shout  of  home-bound  reapers, 

No  vintage-song  he  heard, 
And  on  the  green  no  dancing  feet 

The  merry  violin  stirred. 

"  Why  should  folk  be  glum,"  said  Kee 
zar, 

"When  Nature  herself  is  glad, 
And  the  painted  woods  are  laughing 

At  the  faces  so  sour  and  sad  ?  " 

Small  heed  had  the  careless  cobbler 
What  sorrow  of  heart  was  theirs 

Who  travailed  in  pain  with  the  births  of 

God, 
And  planted  a  state  with  prayers,  — 


33° 


BALLADS. 


Hunting  of  witches  and  warlocks, 
Smiting  the  heathen  horde,  — 

One  hand  on  the  mason's  trowel, 
And  one  on  the  soldier's  sword  ! 

But  give  him  his  ale  and  cider, 
Give  him  his  pipe  and  song, 

Little  he  cared  for  Church  or  State, 
Or  the  balance  of  right  and  wrong. 

"  'T  is  work,  work,  work,"  he  mut 
tered,  — 

"  And  for  rest  a  snuffle  of  psalms  !  " 
He  smote  on  his  leathern  apron 

With  his  brown  and  waxen  palms. 

"  O  for  the  purple  harvests 
Of  the  days  when  I  was  young  ! 

For  the  merry  grape-stained  maidens, 
And  the  pleasant  songs  they  sung  ! 

"  O  for  the  breath  of  vineyards, 
Of  apples  and  nuts  and  wine  ! 

For  an  oar  to  row  and  a  breeze  to  blow 
Down  the  grand  old  river  Rhine  !  " 

A  tear  in  his  blue  eye  glistened, 
And  dropped  on  his  beard  so  gray. 

"  Old,  old  am  I,"  said  Keezar, 
"  And  the  Rhine  flows  far  away  !  " 

But  a  cunning  man  was  the  cobbler  ; 

He  could  call  the  birds  from  the  trees, 
Charm  the  black  snake  out  of  the 
ledges, 

And  bring  back  the  swarming  bees. 

All  the  virtues  of  herbs  and  metals, 
All  the  lore  of  the  woods,  he  knew, 

And  the  arts  of  the  Old  World  mingled 
With  the  marvels  of  the  New. 

Well  he  knew  the  tricks  of  magic, 
And  the  lapstone  on  his  knee 

Had  the  gift  of  the  Mormon's  goggles 
Or  the  stone  of  Doctor  Dee. 

For  the  mighty  master  Agrippa 
Wrought  it  with  spell  and  rhyme 

From  a  fragment  of  mystic  moonstone 
In  the  tower  of  Nettesheim. 

To  a  cobbler  Minnesinger 
The  marvellous  stone  gave  he,  — 


And  he  gave  it,  in  turn,  to  Keezar, 
Who  brought  it  over  the  sea. 

He  held  up  that  mystic  lapstone, 

He  held  it  up  like  a  lens, 
And  he  counted  the  long  years  coming 

By  twenties  and  by  tens. 

"  One  hundred  years,"  quoth  Keezar, 

"  And  fifty  have  I  told  : 
Now  open  the  new  before  me, 

And  shut  me  out  the  old  !  " 

Like  a  cloud  of  mist,  the  blackness 
Rolled  from  the  magic  stone, 

And  a  marvellous  picture  mingled 
The  unknown  and  the  known. 

Still  ran  the  stream  to  the  river, 
And  river  and  ocean  joined  ; 

And  there  were  the  bluffs  and  the  blue 

sea-line, 
And  cold  north  hills  behind. 

But  the  mighty  forest  was  broken 

By  many  a  steepled  town, 
By  many  a  white-walled  farm-house, 

And  many  a  garner  brown. 

Turning  a  score  of  mill-wheels, 
The  stream  no  more  ran  free  ; 

White  sails  on  the  winding  river, 
White  sails  on  the  far-off  sea. 

Below  in  the  noisy  village 
The  flags  were  floating  gay, 

And  shone  on  a  thousand  faces 
The  light  of  a  holiday. 

Swiftly  the  rival  ploughmen 

Turned  the  brown  earth  from  their 

shares ; 
Here  were  the  farmer's  treasures, 

There  were  the  craftsman's  wares. 

Golden  the  goodvvife's  butter, 

Ruby  her  currant-wine  ; 
Grand  were  the  strutting  turkeys, 

Fat  were  the  beeves  and  swine. 

Yellow  and  red  were  the  apples, 
And  the  ripe  pears  russet-brown, 

And  the  peaches  had  stolen  blushes 
From  the  girls  who  shook  them  down. 


AMY  WE  NT  WORTH. 


And  with  blooms  of  hill  and  wild-wood, 

That  shame  the  toil  of  art, 
Mingled  the  gorgeous  blossoms 

Of  the  garden's  tropic  heart. 

"  What  is  it  I  see?  "  said  Keezar : 
"Am  I  here,  or  am  I  there? 

Is  it  a  fete  at  Bingen  ? 
Do  I  look  on  Frankfort  fair  ? 

"  But  where  are  the  clowns  and  puppets, 
And  imps  with  horns  and  tail  ? 

And  where  are  the  Rhenish  flagons? 
And  where  is  the  foaming  ale  ? 

"Strange  things,  I  know,  will  happen, — 
Strange  things  the  Lord  permits  ; 

But  that  droughty  folk  should  be  jolly 
Puzzles  my  poor  old  wits. 

"  Here  are  smiling  manly  faces, 
And  the  maiden's  step  is  gay  ; 

Nor    sad    by  thinking,   nor    mad    by 

drinking, 
Nor  mopes,  nor  fools,  are  they. 

"  Here  's  pleasure  without  regretting. 

And  good  without  abuse, 
The  holiday  and  the  bridal 

Of  beauty  and  of  use. 

"  Here 's  a  priest  and  there  is  a  Qua 
ker,  — 

Do  the  cat  and  dog  agree  ? 
Have  they  burned  the  stocks  for  oven- 
wood? 
Have  they  cut  down  the  gallows-tree  ? 

"  Would  the  old  folk  know  their  chil 
dren  ? 

Would  they  own  the  graceless  town, 
With  never  a  ranter  to  worry 

And  never  a  witch  to  drown  ? " 

Loud  laughed  the  cobbler  Keezar, 
Laughed  like  a  school-boy  gay  ; 

Tossing  his  arms  above  him, 
The  lapstone  rolled  away. 

It  rolled  down  the  rugged  hillside, 
It  spun  like  a  wheel  bewitched, 

It  plunged  through  the  leaning  willows, 
And  into  the  river  pitched. 


There,  in  the  deep,  dark  water, 

The  magic  stone  lies  still, 
Under  the  leaning  willows 

In  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 

But  oft  the  idle  fisher 

Sits  on  the  shadowy  bank, 
And  his  dreams  make  marvellous  pic 
tures 

Where  the  wizard's  lapstone  sank. 

And  still,  in  the  summer  twilights, 
When  the  river  seems  to  run 

Out  from  the  inner  glory, 
Warm  with  the  melted  sun, 

The  weary  mill-girl  lingers 
Beside  the  charmed  stream, 

And  the  sky  and  the  golden  water 
Shape  and  color  her  dream. 

Fair  wave  the  sunset  gardens, 

The  rosy  signals  fly  ; 
Her  homestead  beckons  from  the  cloud, 

And  love  goes  sailing  by  ! 


AMY  WENTWORTH. 

TO  W.    B. 

As  they  who  watch  by  sick-beds  find 
relief 

Unwittingly  from  the  great  stress  of 
grief 

And  anxious  care  in  fantasies  out- 
wrought 

From  the  hearth's  embers  flickering 
low,  or  caught 

From  whispering  wind,  or  tread  of 
passing  feet, 

Or  vagrant  memory  calling  up  some 
sweet 

Snatch  of  old  song  or  romance,  whence 
or  why 

They  scarcely  know  or  ask,  —  so,  thou 
and  I, 

Nursed  in  the  faith  that  Truth  alone  is 
strong 

In  the  endurance  which  outwearies 
Wrong, 

With  meek  persistence  baffling  brutal 
force, 

And  trusting  God  against  the  uni 
verse,  — 


BALLADS. 


We,  doomed  to  watch  a  strife  we  may 


not  share 

With  other  weapons  than  the  patriot's 
prayer, 

Yet  owning,  with  full  hearts  and  moist 
ened  eyes, 

The  awful  beauty  of  self-sacrifice, 

And  wrung  by  keenest  sympathy  for  all 

Who  give  their  loved  ones  for  the  liv 
ing  wall 

'Twixt  law  and  treason,  —  in  this  evil 
day 

May  haply  find,  through  automatic  play 

Of  pen  and  pencil,  solace  to  our  pain, 

And  hearten  others  with  the  strength 
we  gain. 

I  know  it  has  been  said  our  times  re 
quire 

No  play  of  art,  nor  dalliance  with  the 
lyre, 

No  weak  essay  with  Fancy's  chloroform 

To  calm  the  hot,  mad  pjulses  of  the 
storm, 

But  the  stern  war-blast  rather,  such  as 
sets 

The  battle's  teeth  of  serried  bayonets, 

And  pictures  grim  as  Vernet's.  Yet 
with  these 

Some  softer  tints  may  blend,  and  milder 
keys 

Relieve  the  storm-stunned  ear.  Let 
us  keep  sweet, 

If  so  we  may,  our  hearts,  even  while 
we  eat 

The  bitter  harvest  of  our  own  device 

And  half  a  century's  moral  cowardice. 

As  Niirnberg  sang  while  Wittenberg 
defied, 

And  Kranach  painted  by  his  Luther's 
side, 

And  through  the  war-march  of  the  Pu 
ritan 

The  silver  stream  of  Marvell's  music 
ran, 

So  let  the  household  melodies  be  sung, 

The  pleasant  pictures  on  the  wall  be 
hung,  — 

So  let  us  hold  against  the  hosts  of  night 

And  slavery  all  our  vantage-ground  of 
light. 

Let  Treason  boast  its  savagery,  and 
shake 

From  its  flag-folds  its  symbol  rattle 
snake, 


Nurse  its  fine  arts,  lay  human  skins  in 

tan, 
And  carve  its  pipe-bowls  from  the  bones 

of  man, 
And  make  the  tale  of  Fijian  banquets 

dull 
By    drinking    whiskey    from    a    loyal 

skull,  — 
But  let  us  guard,  till  this  sad  war  shall 

cease, 
(God  grant  it  soon  ! )  the  graceful  arts 

of  peace  : 
No  foes  are  conquered  who  the  victors 

teach 
Their  vandal  manners    and  barbaric 

speech. 

And  while,  with  hearts  of  thankfulness, 

we  bear 
Of  the  great  common  burden  our  full 

share, 
Let  none  upbraid  us  that   the  waves 

entice 
Thy  sea-dipped  pencil,  or  some  quaint 

device, 
Rhythmic  and  sweet,  beguiles  my  pen 

away 
From  the  sharp  strifes  and  sorrows  of 

to-day. 
Thus,   while  the  east-wind  keen  from 

Labrador 
Sings  in  the  leafless  elms,  and  from  the 

shore 
Of  the  great  sea  comes  the  monotonous 

roar 
Of  the  long-breaking  surf,  and  all  the 

sky 
Is  gray  with   cloud,  home-bound  and 

dull,  I  try 

To  time  a  simple  legend  to  the  sounds 
Of  winds  in  the  woods,  and  waves  on 

pebbled  bounds,  — 
A  song  for  oars  to  chime  with,  such  as 

might 
Be  sung  by  tired  sea-painters,  who  at 

night 
Look  from  their  hemlock  camps,  by 

quiet  cove 
Or  beach,    moon-lighted,  on  the  waves 

they  love. 

(So  hast  thou  looked,  when  level  sun 
set  lay 
On  the  calm  bosom  of  some  Eastern 

bay, 


AMY  WENTWORTH. 


333 


And  all  the  spray-moist  rocks  and 
waves  that  rolled 

Up  the  white  sand-slopes  flashed  with 
ruddy  gold.) 

Something  it  lias  —  a  flavor  of  the  sea, 

And  the  sea's  freedom  —  which  re 
minds  of  thee. 

Its  faded  picture,  dimly  smiling  down 

From  the  blurred  fresco  of  the  ancient 
town, 

I  have  not  touched  with  warmer  tints 
in  vain, 

If,  in  this  dark,  sad  year,  it  steals  one 
thought  from  pain. 


HER  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 

They  dance  so  light  along  ; 
The  bloom  upon  her  parted  lips 

Is  sweeter  than  the  song. 

O  perfumed  suitor,  spare  thy  smiles  ! 

Her  thoughts  are  not  of  thee  ; 
She  better  loves  the  salted  wind, 

The  voices  of  the  sea. 

Her  heart  is  like  an  outbound  ship 

That  at  its  anchor  swings  ; 
The  murmur  of  the  stranded  shell 

Is  in  the  song  she  sings. 

She    sings,   and,    smiling,    hears    her 
praise, 

But  dreams  the  while  of  one 
Who  watches  from  his  sea-blown  deck 

The  icebergs  in  the  sun. 

She  questions  all  the  winds  that  blow, 

And  every  fog-wreath  dim, 
And  bids  the  sea-birds  flying  north 

Bear  messages  to  him. 

She  speeds  them  with  the  thanks  of  men 

He  perilled  life  to  save, 
And  grateful  prayers  like  holy  oil 

To  smooth  for  him  the  wave. 

Brown  Viking  of  the  fishing-smack  ! 

Fair  toast  of  all  the  town  !  — 
The  skipper's  jerkin  ill  beseems 

The  lady's  silken  gown  ! 


But  ne'er  shall  Amy  Wentworth  wear 
For  him  the  blush,  of  shame 

Who  dares  to  set  his  manly  gifts 
Against  her  ancient  name. 

The  stream  is  brightest  at  its  spring, 
And  blood  is  not  like  wine  ; 

Nor  honored  less  than  he  who  heirs 
Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 

Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won, 

If  love  be  Fortune's  spur; 
And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 

Who  lifts  himself  to  her. 

Her  home  is  brave  in  Jaffrey  Street, 
With  stately  stairways  worn 

By  feet  of  old  Colonial  knights 
And  ladies  gentle-born. 

Still  green  about  its  ample  porch 

The  English  ivy  twines, 
Trained  back  to  show  in  English  oak 

The  herald's  carven  signs. 

And  on  her,  from  the  wainscot  old, 

Ancestral  faces  frown,  — 
And  this  has  worn  the  soldier's  sword, 

And  that  the  judge's  gown. 

But,  strong  of  will  and  proud  as  they, 

She  walks  the  gallery  floor 
As  if  she  trod  her  sailor's  deck 

By  stormy  Labrador  ! 

The  sweetbrier  blooms  on  Kittery-side, 
And  green  are  Elliot's  bowers  ; 

Her  garden  is  the  pebbled  beach, 
The  mosses  are  her  flowers. 

She  looks  across  the  harbor-bar 

To  see  the  white  gulls  fly  ; 
His  greeting  from  the  Northern  sea 

Is  in  their  clanging  cry. 

She  hums  a  song,  and  dreams  that  he, 

As  in  its  romance  old, 
Shall  homeward  ride  with  silken  sails 

And  masts  of  beaten  gold  ! 

O,  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair, 
And  high  and  low  mate  ill ; 

But  love  has  never  known  a  law 
Beyond  its  own  sweet  will  1 


BALLADS. 


THE  COUNTESS. 

TO    E.    W. 

I  KNOW  not,  Time  and  Space  so  inter-* 
vene, 

Whether,  still  waiting  with  a  trust  se 
rene, 

Thou  bearest  up  thy  fourscore  years 
and  ten, 

Or,  called  at  last,  art  now  Heaven's  cit 
izen  ; 

But,  here  or  there,  a  pleasant  thought 
of  thee, 

Like   an  old  friend,  all  day  has  been 
with  me. 

The  shy,  still  boy,  for  whom  thy  kindly 
hand 

Smoothed  his  hard  pathway  to  the  won 
der-land 

Of  thought  and  fancy,  in  gray  manhood 
yet 

Keeps  green  the  memory  of  his  early 
debt. 

To-day,    when    truth    and    falsehood 
speak  their  words 

Through   hot-lipped   cannon   and  the 
teeth  of  swords, 

Listening  with   quickened    heart  and 
ear  intent 

To  each  sharp  clause  of  that  stern  ar 
gument, 

I    still    can    hear    at    times    a    softer 
note 

Of  the   old  pastoral  music  round  me 
float, 

While   through   the  hot  gleam  of  our 
civil  strife  . 

Looms  the  green  mirage  of  a  simpler 
life. 

As,  at  his  alien  post,  the  sentinel 

Drops  the  old  bucket  in  the  homestead 
well, 

And  hears  old  voices  in  the  winds  that 
toss 

Above  his  head  the  live-oak's  beard  of 
moss, 

So,  in  our  trial-time,  and  under  skies 

Shadowed  by  swords  like  Islam's  par 
adise, 

I  wait  and   watch,    and  let  my  fancy 
stray 

To  milder  scenes  and  youth's  Arcadian 
day; 


And  howsoe'er  the  pencil  dipped  in 
dreams 

Shades  the  brown  woods  or  tints  the 
sunset  streams. 

The  country  doctor  in  the  foreground 
seems, 

Whose  ancient  sulky  down  the  village 
lanes 

Dragged,  like  a  war-car,  captive  ills 
and  pains. 

I  could  not  paint  the  scenery  of  my 
song, 

Mindless  of  one  who  looked  thereon 
so  long  ; 

Who,  night  and  day,  on  duty's  lonely 
round, 

Made  friends  o'  the  woods  and  rocks, 
and  knew  the  sound 

Of  each  small  brook,  and  what  the  hill 
side  trees 

Said  to  the  winds  that  touched  their 
leafy  keys  ; 

Who  saw  so  keenly  and  so  well  could 
paint 

The  village-folk,  with  all  their  hu 
mors  quaint,  — 

The  parson  ambling  on  his  wall-eyed 
roan, 

Grave  and  erect,  with  white  hair  back 
ward  blown  ; 

The  tough  old  boatman,  half  amphibi 
ous  grown  ; 

The  muttering  witch-wife  of  the  gos- 
.  sip's  tale, 

And  the  loud  straggler  levying  his 
black-mail,  — 

Old  customs,  habits, superstitions,  fears, 

All  that  lies  buried  under  fifty  years. 

To  thee,  as  is  most  fit,  I  bring  my 
lay, 

And,  grateful,  own  the  debt  I  cannot 
pay. 


OVER  the  wooded  northern  ridge, 

Between  its  houses  brown, 
To  the  dark  tunnel  of  the  bridge 

The  street  comes  straggling  down. 

You  catch  a  glimpse,  through  birch  and 
pine, 

Of  gable,  roof,  and  porch, 
The  tavern  with  its  swinging  sign, 

The  sharp  horn  of  the  church. 


THE   COUNTESS. 


335 


The  river's  steel-blue  crescent  curves 

To  meet,  in  ebb  and  flow, 
The  single  broken  wharf  that  serves 

For  sloop  and  gundelow. 

With  salt  sea-scents  along  its  shores 
The  heavy  hay-boats  crawl, 

The  long  antenna  of  their  oars 
In  lazy  rise  and  fall. 

Along  the  gray  abutment's  wall 

The  idle  shad-net  dries  ; 
The  toll-man  in  his  cobbler's  stall 

Sits  smoking  with  closed  eyes. 

You  hear  the  pier's  low  undertone 
Of  waves  that  chafe  and  gnaw  ; 

You  start,  —  a  skipper's  horn  is  blown 
To  raise  the  creaking  draw. 

At  times  a  blacksmith's  anvil  sounds 
With  slow  and  sluggard  beat, 

Or  stage-coach  on  its  dusty  rounds 
Wakes  up  the  staring  street. 

A  place  for  idle  eyes  and  ears, 
A  cobwebbed  nook  of  dreams  ; 

Left  by  the   stream   whose  waves  are 

years 
The  stranded  village  seems. 

And  there,  like  other  moss  and  rust, 

The  native  dweller  clings, 
And  keeps,  in  uninquiring  trust, 

The  old,  dull  round  of  things. 

The  fisher  drops  his  patient  lines, 

The  farmer  sows  his  grain, 
Content  to  hear  the  murmuring  pines 

Instead  of  railroad-train. 

Go  where,  along  the  tangled  steep 
That  slopes  against  the  west, 

The  hamlet's  buried  idlers  sleep 
In  still  profounder  rest. 

Throw  back  the  locust's  flowery  plume, 
The  birch's  pale-green  scarf, 

And  break  the  web  of  brier  and  bloom 
From  name  and  epitaph. 

A  simple  muster-roll  of  death, 
Of  pomp  and  romance  shorn, 

The  dry,  old  names  that  common  breath 
Has  cheapened  and  outworn. 


Yet  pause  by  one  low  mound,  and  part 
The  wild  vines  o'er  it  laced, 

And  read  the  words  by  rustic  art 
Upon  its  headstone  traced. 

Haply  yon  white-haired  villager 

Of  fourscore  years  can  say 
What  means  the  noble  name  of  her 

Who  sleeps  with  common  clay. 

An  exile  from  the  Gascon  land 
Found  refuge  here  and  rest, 

And  loved,  of  all  the  village  band, 
Its  fairest  and  its  best. 

He  knelt  with  her  on  Sabbath  morns, 
He  worshipped  through  her  eyes, 

And  on  the  pride  that  doubts  and  scorns 
Stole  in  her  faith's  surprise. 

Her  simple  daily  life  he  saw 

By  homeliest  duties  tried, 
In  all  things  by  an  untaught  law 

Of  fitness  justified. 

For  her  his  rank  aside  he  laid ; 

He  took  the  hue  and  tone 
Of  lowly  life  and  toil,  and  made 

Her  simple  ways  his  own. 

Yet  still,  in  gay  and  careless  ease, 

To  harvest-field  or  dance 
He  brought  the  gentle  courtesies, 

The  nameless  grace  of  France. 

And  she  who  taught  him  love  not  less 
From  him  she  loved  in  turn 

Caught  in  her  sweet  unconsciousness 
What  love  is  quick  to  learn. 

Each  grew  to  each  in  pleased  accord, 

Nor  knew  the  gazing  town 
If  she  looked  upward  to  her  lord 

Or  he  to  her  looked  down. 

How  sweet,  when  summer's  day  was 
o'er, 

His  violin's  mirth  and  wail, 
The  walk  on  pleasant  Newbury's  shore, 

The  river's  moonlit  sail  ! 

Ah  !  life  is  brief,  though  love  belong; 

The  altar  and  the  bier. 
The  burial  hymn  and  bridal  song, 

Were  both  in  one  short  year  1 


336 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


Her  rest  is  quiet  on  the  hill, 
Beneath  the  locust's  bloom  : 

Far  off  her  lover  sleeps  as  still 
Within  his  scutcheoned  tomb. 

The  Gascon  lord,  the  village  maid, 
In  death  still  clasp  their  hands  ; 

The  love  that  levels  rank  and  grade 
Unites  their  severed  lands. 

What  matter  whose  the  hillside  grave, 
Or  whose  the  blazoned  stone  ? 

Forever  to  her  western  wave 
Shall  whisper  blue  Garonne  ! 

O  Love  !  —  so  hallowing  every  soil 
That  gives  thy  sweet  flower  room, 

Wherever,  nursed  by  ease  or  toil, 
The  human  heart  takes  bloom  !  — 


Plant  of  lost  Eden,  from  the  sod 

Of  sinful  earth  unriven. 
White  blossom  of  the  trees  of  God 

Dropped  down  to  us  from  heaven  !  -^. 

This  tangled  waste  of  mound  and  stone 

Is  holy  for  thy  sake  ; 
A  sweetness  which  is  all  thy  own 

Breathes  out  from  fern  and  brake. 

And  while  ancestral  pride  shall  twine 
The  Gascon's  tomb  with  flowers, 

Fall  sweetly  here,  O  song  of  mine, 
With  summer's  bloom  and  showers  ! 

And  let  the  lines  that  severed  seem 

Unite  again  in  thee, 
As  western  wave  and  Gallic  stream 

Are  mingled  in  one  sea  ! 


OCCASIONAL     POEMS. 


NAPLES. 
1860. 

INSCRIBED   TO  ROBERT  C.  WATERSTON, 
OF   BOSTON. 

I  GIVE  thee  joy  !  —  I  know  to  thee 
The  dearest  spot  on  earth  must  be 
Where  sleeps  thy  loved  one  by  the 
summer  sea ; 

Where,   near  her  sweetest  poet's 

tomb, 

The  land  of  Virgil  gave  thee  room 
To  lay  thy  flower  with  her  perpetual 

bloom. 

I   know   that  when   the   sky  shut 

down 

Behind  thee  on  the  gleaming  town, 
On  Baiae's  baths  and  Posilippo's  crown  ; 

And,  through  thy  tears,  the  mock 
ing  day 
Burned    Ischia's    mountain    lines 

away, 
And  Capri  melted  in  its  sunny  bay,  — 


Through  thy  great  farewell  sorrow 

shot 

The  sharp  pang  of  a  bitter  thought 
That  slaves  must  tread   around  that 

holy  spot. 

Thou  knewest  not  the  land  was 

blest 

In  giving  thy  beloved  rest, 
Holding  the  fond  hope  closer  to  her 
breast. 

That  every  sweet  and  saintly  grave 
Was  freedom's  prophecy,  and  gave 
The  pledge  of  Heaven  to  sanctify  and 
save. 

That  pledge  is  answered.     To  thy 

ear 

The  unchained  city  sends  its  cheer, 
And,  tuned  to  joy,  the  muffled  bells  of 

fear 

Ring  Victor    in.     The    land    sits 

free 

And  happy  by  the  summer  sea, 
And  Bourbon  Naples  now  is  Italy ! 


THE    WAITING. 


337 


She  smiles  above  her  broken  chain 
The  languid  smile  that  follows  pain, 
Stretching  her  cramped  limbs  to  the 
sun  again. 

O,  joy  for  all,  who  hear  her  call 
And  El 


From  gray  Camaldoli's  con  vent- wall 
ilmo's  towers  to  freedom's  carni 


val! 

A  new  life  breathes  among  her  vines 
And  olives,  like  the  breath  of  pines 
Blown  downward  from  the  breezy  Apen 
nines. 

Lean,  O  my  friend,  to  meet  that 

breath, 

Rejoice  as  one  who  witnesseth 
Beauty  from  ashes  rise,  and  life  from 

death ! 

Thy  sorrow  shall  no  more  be  pain, 
Its  tears  shall  fall  in  sunlit  rain, 
•'Writing  the  grave  with  flowers:  "Arisen 
again  ! " 


THE  SUMMONS, 

MY  ear  is  full  of  summer  sounds, 
Of  summer  sights  my  languid  eye ; 

Beyond  the  dusty  village  bounds 

1  loiter  in  my  daily  rounds, 
And  in  th-e  noon-time  shadows  lie. 

I  hear  the  wild  bee  wind  his  horn, 

The  bird  swingson  the  ripened  wheat, 
The  long  green  lances  of  the  com 
Are  tilting  in  the  winds  of  morn, 
The  locust  shrills  his  song  of  heat. 

Another  sound  my  spirit  hears, 

A   deeper  sound   that  drowns  them 

all,— 

A  voice  of  pleading  choked  with  tears, 
The  call  of  human  hopes  and  fears, 
The  Macedonian  cry  to  Paul  ! 

The  storm-bell  rings,  the  trumpet  blows; 

I  know  the  word  and  countersign  ; 
Wherever  Freedom's  vanguard  goes, 
Where  stand  or  fall  her  friends  or  foes, 

1  know  the  place  that  shpuld  be  mine, 


Shamed  be  the  hands  that  idly  fold, 

And  lips  that  woo  the  reed's  accord, 
When  laggard  Time  the  hour  has  tolled 
For  true  with  false  and  new  with  old 
To  fight  the  battles  of  the  Lord ! 

O  brothers  !  blest  by  partial  Fate 
With  power  to  match  the  will  and 

deed, 

To  him  your  summons  comes  too  late 
s  Who  sinks  beneath  his  armor's  weight,/ 
\     And  has  no  answer  but  God-speed  !  / 


THE  WAITING. 

I  WAIT  and  watch  :  before  my  eyes 
Methinks  the  night  grows  thin  and 

gray; 

I  wait  and  watch  the  eastern  skies 
To  see  the  golden  spears  uprise 
Beneath  the  oriflamme  of  day  ! 

Like  one  whose  limbs  are  bound  in 

trance 

I  hear  the  day-sounds  swell  and  grow, 
And  see  across  the  twilight  glance, 
Troop  after  troop,  in  swift  advance, 
The   shining    ones  with  plumes  of 
snow! 

I  know  the  errand  of  their  feet, 

I  know  what  mighty  work  is  theirs  ; 
I  can  but  lift  up  hands  unmeet, 
The  threshing-floors  of  God  to  beat, 
And     speed    them    with    unworthy 
prayers. 

I  will  not  dream  in  vain  despair 

The  steps  of  progress  wait  for  me : 
The  puny  leverage  of  a  hair 
The  planet's  impulse  well  may  spare, 
A  drop  of  dew  the  tided  sea. 

The  loss,  if  loss  there  be,  is  mine, 
And  yet  not  mine  if  understood  ; 
For  one  shall  grasp  and  one  resign,  ^ 
One  drink  life's  rue,  and  one  its  wine, 
And  God  shall  make  the    balance 
good, 

O  power  to  do  !  O  baffled  will ! 
O  prayer  and  action  !  ye  are  one 


33S 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


Who  may  not  strive,  may  yet  fulfil 
The  harder  task  of  standing  still, 

And  good  but  wished  with  God  is 
done  ! 


MOUNTAIN  PICTURES. 
I. 

FRANCONIA   FROM    THE   PEMIGE- 
WASSET. 

ONCE  more,  O  Mountains  of  the  North, 

unveil 
Your  brows,   and    lay  your    cloudy 

mantles  by  ! 
And  once  more,  ere  the  eyes  that  seek 

ye  fail, 
Uplift  against  the  blue  walls  of  the 

sky 

Your  mighty  shapes,  and  let  the  sun 
shine  weave 
Its  golden  net-work  in  your  belting 

woods, 
Smile  down  in  rainbows  from  your 

falling  floods, 
And  on  your  kingly  brows  at  morn  and 

eve 
Set  crowns  of  fire  !     So  shall  my  soul 

receive 
Haply  the  secret  of  your  calm    and 

strength, 

Your  unforgotten  beauty  interfuse 
My  common  life,  your  glorious  shapes 

and  hues 
And   sun-dropped   splendors   at  my 

bidding  come, 
Lppm     vast    through    dreams,    and 

stretch  in  billowy  length 
From  the  sea-level  of  my  lowland  home  ! 

They  rise  before   me  !      Last  night's 

thunder-gust 
Roared    not  in   vain  :    for  where    its 

lightnings  thrust 
Their  tongues  of  fire,  the  great  peaks 

seem  so  near, 
Burned  clean  of  mist,  so  starkly  bold 

and  clear, 
I  almost  pause  the  wind  in  the  pines  to 

hear, 
The  loose    rock's    fall,   the    steps    of 

browsing  deer. 


The  clouds  that  shattered  on  yon  slide- 
worn  walls 

And   splintered   on  the   rocks  their 
spears  of  rain 

Have  set  in  play  a  thousand  waterfalls, 

Making  the   dusk  and  silence  of  the 
woods 

Glad  with  the  laughter  of  the  chasing 
floods, 

And  luminous   with  blown  spray  and 
silver  gleams, 

While,    in    the   vales  below,   the  dry- 
lipped  streams 

Sing  to  the  freshened  meadow-lands 
again. 

So,  let  me  hope,  the  battle-storm  that 

beats 

The  land  with  hail  and  fire  may  pass 
away 

With  its  spent  thunders  at  the  break  of 
day, 

Like  last  night's  clouds,  and  leave,  as 

it  retreats, 

A  greener  earth  and  fairer  sky  be 
hind, 

Blown   crystal-clear    by    Freedom's 
Northern  wind  ! 


II. 

MONADNOCK   FROM  WACHUSET. 

I  WOULD  I  were  a  painter,  for  the  sake 
Of  a  sweet  picture,  and  of  her  who 

led, 

A  fitting  guide,  with  reverential  tread, 

Into thatmountain  mystery.    First  a  lake 

Tinted   with  sunset ;  next  the  wavy 

lines 
Of  far  receding  hills  ;  and  yet  more 

far, 
Monadnock  lifting  from  his  night  of 

pines 
His  rosy  forehead  to  the  evening 

star. 

Beside  us,  purple-zoned,  Wachuset  laid 
His  head   against    the    West,    whose 

warm  light  made 
His  aureole  ;  and  o'er  him,  sharp 

and  clear, 

Like  a  shaft  of  lightning  in  mid-launch 
ing;  stayed, 
A  single  level  cloud-line,  shone  upon 


OUR  RIVER. 


339 


By  the  fierce  glances  of  the  sunken 

sun, 

Menaced  the  darkness  with  its  gol 
den  spear ! 

So  twilight  deepened  round  us.     Still 

and  black 
The  great  woods  climbed  the  mountain 

at  pur  back ; 

•And  on  their  skirts,  where  yet  the  lin 
gering  day 
'On  the  shorn  greenness  of  the  clearing 

lay, 
The  brown   old  farm-house  like    a 

bird's-nest  hung. 
VVith  home-life  sounds  the  desert   air 

was  stirred : 
the  bleat  of  sheep  along  the  hill  we 

heard, 
The  bucket  plashing  in  the  cool,  sweet 

well, 
The  pasture-bars  that  clattered  as  they 

fell; 
Dogs    barked,    fowls    fluttered,   cattle 

lowed  ;  the  gate 
Of  the  barn-yard  creaked  beneath  the 

merry  weight 
Of    sun-brown     children,    listening, 

while  they  swung, 
The  welcome  sound  of  supper-call 

to  hear  ; 
And   down  the   shadowy  lane,  in 

tinklings  clear, 
The  pastoral  curfew  of  the  cow-bell 

rung. 

Thus  soothed  and  pleased,  our  back 
ward  path  we  took, 
Praising  the    farmer's    home.      He 

only  spake, 

Looking  into  the  sunset  o'er  the  lake, 
Like   one   to   whom  the  far-off  is 

most  near : 
"  Yes,  most  folks  think  it  has  a  pleasant 

look; 

I  love  it  formygood  old  mother's  sake, 
Who  lived  and   died   here   in  the 

peace  of  God  !  " 
The  lesson  of  his  words  we  pondered 

o'er, 

As  silently  we  turned  the  eastern  flank 
Of   the   mountain,   where   its   shadow 

deepest  sank, 

Doubling  the  night  along  our  rugged 
road : 


We  felt  that  man  was  more  than  his 

abode,  — 

The   inward  life  than  Nature's  rai 
ment  more  ; 
And  the  warm  sky,  the  sundown-tinted 

hill, 
The   forest    and    the    lake,    seemed 

dwarfed  and  dim 
Before  the  saintly  soul,  whose  human 

will 
Meekly  in  the    Eternal  footsteps 

trod, 
Making  her  homely  toil  and  household 

ways 

An  earthly  echo  of  the  song  of  praise 
Swelling  from  angel  lips   and  harps 
of  seraphim. 


OUR  RIVER. 

FOR    A    SUMMER    FESTIVAL    AT    "THE 
LAURELS  "   ON    THE    MERRIMACK. 

ONCE  more  on  yonder  laurelled  height 

The  summer  flowers  have  budded  ; 
Once  more  with  summer's  golden  light 

The  vales  of  home  are  flooded  ; 
And  once  more,  by  the  grace  of  Him 

Of  every  good  the  Giver, 
We  sing  upon  its  wooded  rim 

The  praises  of  our  river : 

Its  pines  above,  its  waves  below, 

The  west-wind  down  it  blowing, 
As  fair  as  when  the  young  Brissot 

Beheld  it  seaward  flowing,  — 
And  bore  its  memory  o'er  the  deep, 

To  soothe  a  martyr's  sadness, 
And  fresco,  in  his  troubled  sleep, 

His  prison- walls  with  gladness. 

We  know  the  world  is  rich  with  streams 

Renowned  in  song  and  story, 
Whose   music   murmurs   through    out 
dreams 

Of  human  love  and  glory: 
We  know  that  Arno's  banks  are  fair, 

And  Rhine  has  castled  shadows, 
And,  poet-tuned,  the  Doon  and  Ayr 

Go  singing  down  their  meadows. 

But  while,  unpictured  and  unsung 
By  painter  or  by  poet, 


340 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


Our  river  waits  the  tuneful  tongue 
And  cunning  hand  to  show  it,  — 

We  only  know  the  fond  skies  lean 
Above  it.  warm  with  blessing. 

And  the  sweet  soul  of  our  Undine 
Awakes  to  our  caressing. 

No  fickle  sun-god  holds  the  flocks 

That  graze  its  shores  in  keeping; 
No  icy  kiss  of  Dian  mocks 

The  youth  beside  it  sleeping  : 
Our  Christian  river  loveth  most 

The  beautiful  and  human  ; 
The  heathen  streams  of  Naiads  boast, 

But  ours  of  man  and  woman. 

The  miner  in  his  cabin  hears 

The  ripple  we  are  hearing  ; 
It  whispers  soft  to  homesick  ears 

Around  the  settler's  clearing  : 
In  Sacramento's  vales  of  corn, 

Or  Santee's  bloom  of  cotton, 
Our  river  by  its  valley-born 

Was  never  yet  forgotten. 

The  drum  rolls  loud,  —  the  bugle  fills 

The  summer  air  with  clangor  ; 
The  war-storm  shakes  the  solid  hills 

Beneath  its  tread  of  anger  ; 
Young  eyes  that  last  year  smiled  in  ours 

Now  point  the  rifle's  barrel, 
And  hands  then  stained  with  fruits  and 
flowers 

Bear  redder  stains  of  quarrel. 

But  blue  skies  smile,  and  flowers  bloom 
on, 

And  rivers  still  keep  flowing,  — 
The  dear  God  still  his  rain  and  sun 

On  good  and  ill  bestowing. 
His  pine-trees  whisper,    "  Trust   and 
wait !  " 

His  flowers  are  prophesying 
That  all  we  dread  of  change  or  fall 

His  love  is  underlying. 

And  thou,  O  Mountain-born  ! — no  more 

We  ask  the  wise  Allotter 
Than  for  the  firmness  of  thy  shore, 

The  calmness  of  thy  water, 
The  cheerful  lights  that  overlay 

Thy  rugged  slopes  with  beauty, 
To  match  our  spirits  to  our  day 

And  make  a  joy  of  duty. 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER. 

ANDREW  RYKMAN  's  dead  and  gone', 
You  can  see  his  leaning  slate 

In  the  graveyard,  and  thereon 
Read  his  name  and  date. 

"  Trust  is  truer  than  our  fears" 
Runs  the  legend  through  the  moss, 

"  Gain  is  not  in  added  years, 
Nor  in  deatJi  is  loss. ' ' 

Still  the  feet  that  thither  trod, 
All  the  friendly  eyes  are  dim  ; 

Only  Nature,  now,  and  God 
Have  a  care  for  him. 

There  the  dews  of  quiet  fall, 

Singing  birds  and  soft  winds  stray ; 

Shall  the  tender  Heart  of  all 
Be  less  kind  than  they  ? 

What  he  was  and  what  he  is 
They  who  ask  may  haply  find, 

If  they  read  this  prayer  of  his 
Which  he  left  behind. 


Pardon,  Lord,  the  lips  that  dare 
Shape  in  words  a  mortal's  prayer  ! 
Prayer,  that,  when  my  day  is  done, 
And  I  see  its  setting  sun, 
Shorn  and  beamless,  cold  and  dim, 
Sink  beneath  the  horizon's  rim,  — 
When  this  ball  of  rock  and  clay 
Crumbles  from  my  feet  away, 
And  the  solid  shores  of  sense 
Melt  into  the  vague  immense, 
Father  !  I  may  come  to  Thee 
Even  with  the  beggar's  plea, 
As  the  poorest  of  Thy  poor, 
With  my  needs,  and  nothing  more. 

Not  as  one  who  seeks  his  home 
With  a  step  assured  I  come  ; 
Still  behind  the  tread  I  hear 
Of  my  life-companion,  Fear; 
Still  a  shadow  deep  and  vast 
From  my  westering  feet  is  cast, 
Wavering,  doubtful,  undefined, 
Never  shapen  nor  outlined  : 
From  myself  the  fear  has  grown, 
And  the  shadow  is  my  own. 


ANDREW  RYK MAN'S  PRAYER. 


Yet,  O  Lord,  through  all  a  sense 

Of  Thy  tender  providence 

Stays  my  failing  heart  on  Thee, 

And  confirms  the  feeble  knee  ; 

And,  at  times,  my  worn  feet  press 

Spaces  of  cool  quietness, 

Lilied  whiteness  shone  upon 

Not  by  light  of  moon  or  sun. 

Hours  there  be  of  inmost  calm, 

Broken  but  by  grateful  psalm, 

When  I  love  Thee  more  than  fear  Thee, 

And  Thy  blessed  Christ  seems  near  me, 

With  forgiving  look,  as  when 

He  beheld  the  Magdalen. 

Well  I  know  that  all  things  move 

To  the  spheral  rhythm  of  love, — 

That  to  Thee,  O  Lord  of  all! 

Nothing  can  of  chance  befall : 

Child  and  seraph,  mote  and  star, 

Well  Thou  knowest  what  we  are  ; 

Through  Thy  vast  creative  plan 

Looking,  from  the  worm  to  man, 

There  is  pity  in  Thine  eyes, 

But  no  hatred  nor  surprise. 

Not  in  blind  caprice  of  will, 

Not  in  cunning  sleight  of  skill, 

Not  for  show  of  power,  was  wrought 

Nature's  marvel  in  Thy  thought. 

Never  careless  hand  and  vain 

Smites  these  chords  of  joy  and  pain  ; 

No  immortal  selfishness 

Plays  the  game  of  curse  and  bless  : 

Heaven  and  earth  are  witnesses 

That  Thy  glory  goodness  is. 

Not  for  sport  of  mind  and  force 

Hast  Thou  made  Thy  universe, 

But  as  atmosphere  and  zone 

Of  Thy  loving  heart  alone. 

Man,  who  walketh  in  a  show, 

Sees  before  him,  to  and  fro, 

Shadow  and  illusion  go  ; 

All  things  flow  and  fluctuate, 

Now  contract  and  now  dilate. 

In  the  welter  of  this  sea, 

Nothing  stable  is  but  Thee  ; 

In  this  whirl  of  swooning  trance, 

Thou  alone  art  permanence  ; 

All  without  Thee  only  seems, 

All  beside  is  choice  of  dreams. 

Never  yet  in  darkest  mood 

Doubted  I  that  Thou  wast  good, 

Nor  mistook  my  will  for  fate, 

Pain  of  sin  for  heavenly  hate,  — 

Never  dreamed  the  gates  of  pearl 


Rise  from  out  the  burning  marl, 

Or  that  good  can  only  live 

Of  the  bad  conservative, 

And  through  counterpoise  of  hell 

Heaven  alone  be  possible. 

For  myself  alone  I  doubt ; 

All  is  well,  I  know,  without ; 

I  alone  the  beauty  mar, 

I  alone  the  music  jar. 

Yet,  with  hands  by  evil  stained, 

And  an  ear  by  discord  pained, 

I  am  groping  for  the  keys 

Of  the  heavenly  harmonies  ; 

Still  within  my  heart  I  bear 

Love  for  all  things  good  and  fair. 

Hands  of  want  or  souls  in  pain 

Have  not  sought  my  door  in  vain  ; 

I  have  kept  my  fealty  good 

To  the  human  brotherhood  ; 

Scarcely  have  I  asked  in  prayer 

That  which  others  might  not  share. 

I,  who  hear  with  secret  shame 

Praise  that  paineth  more  than  blame, 

Rich  alone  in  favors  lent, 

Virtuous  by  accident, 

Doubtful  where  I  fain  would  rest, 

Frailest  where  I  seem  the  best, 

Only  strong  for  lack  of  test,  — 

What  am  I,  that  I  should  press 

Special  pleas  of  selfishness, 

Coolly  mounting  into  heaven 

On  my  neighbor  unforgiven  ? 

Ne'er  to  me,  howe'er  disguised, 

Comes  a  saint  unrecognized  ; 

Never  fails  my  heart  to  greet 

Noble  deed  with  warmer  beat ; 

Halt  and  maimed,  I  own  not  less 

All  the  grace  of  holiness ; 

Nor,  through  shame  or  self-distrust, 

Less  I  love  the  pure  and  just. 

Lord,  forgive  these  words  of  mine  : 

What  have  I  that  is  not  Thine?  — 

Whatsoe'er  I  fain  would  boast 

Needs  Thy  pitying  pardon  most. 

Thou,  O  Elder  Brother  !  who 

In  Thy  flesh  our  trial  knew, 

Thou,  who  hast  been  touched  by  these 

Our  most  sad  infirmities, 

Thou  alone  the  gulf  canst  span 

In  the  dual  heart  of  man, 

And  between  the  soul  and  sense 

Reconcile  all  difference, 

Change  the  dream  of  me  and  mine 

For  the  truth  of  Thee  and  Thine, 


342 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


And,  through  chaos,  doubt,  and  strife, 
Interfuse  Thy  calm  of  life. 
Haply,  thus  by  Thee  renewed, 
In  Thy  borrowed  goodness  good, 
Some  sweet  morning  yet  in  God's 
Dim,  Ionian  periods, 
Joyful  I  shall  wake  to  see 
Those  I  love  who  rest  in  Thee, 
And  to  them  in  Thee  allied 
Shall  my  soul  be  satisfied. 

Scarcely  Hope  hath  shaped  for  me 
What  the  future  life  may  be. 
Other  lips  may  well  be  bold  ; 
Like  the  publican  of  old, 
I  can  only  urge  the  plea, 
"  Lord,  be  merciful  to  me  ! " 
Nothing  of  desert  I  claim, 
Unto  me  belongeth  shame. 
Not  for  me  the  crowns  of  gold, 
Palms,  and  harpings  manifold ; 
Not  for  erring  eye  and  feet 
Jasper  wall  and  golden  street. 
What  thpu  wilt,  O  Father,  give  ! 
All  is  gain  that  I  receive. 
If  my  voice  I  may  not  raise 
In  the  elders'  song  of  praise, 
If  I  may  not,  sin-defiled, 
Claim  my  birthright  as  a  child, 
Suffer  it  that  I  to  Thee 
As  an  hired  servant  be  ; 
Let  the  lowliest  task  be  mine, 
Grateful,  so  the  work  be  Thine  ; 
Let  me  find  the  humblest  place 
In  the  shadow  of  Thy  grace  : 
Blest  to  me  were  any  spot 
Where  temptation  whispers  not. 
If  there  be  some  weaker  one, 
Give  me  strength  to  help  him  on ; 
If  a  blinder  soul  there  be, 
Let  me  guide  him  nearer  Thee. 
Make  my  mortal  dreams  come  true 
With  the  work  I  fain  would  do  ; 
Clothe  with  life  the  weak  intent, 
Let  me  be  the  thing  I  meant; 
Let  me  find  in  Thy  employ 
Peace  that  dearer  is  than  joy  ; 
Out  of  self  to  love  be  led 
And  to  heaven  acclimated, 
Until  all  things  sweet  and  good 
Seem  my  natural  habitude. 


So  we  read  the  prayer  of  him 
Who,  with  John  of  Labadie, 


Trod,  of  old,  the  oozy  rim 
OftheZuyderZee. 

Thus  did  Andrew  Rykman  pray. 

Are  we  wiser,  better  grown, 
That  we  may  not,  in  our  day, 

Make  his  prayer  our  own  ? 


THE  CRY  OF  A  LOST  SOUL.N 

IN  that  black  forest,  where,  when  day 

is  done, 
With  a  snake's  stillness  glides  the 

Amazon 
Darkly  from  sunset  to  the  rising  sun, 

A  cry,  as  of  the  pained  heart  of  the 

wood, 

The  long,  despairing  moan  of  solitude 
And  darkness  and  the  absence  of  all 


Startles  the  traveller,  with  a  sound  so 

drear, 

So  full  of  hopeless  agony  and  fear. 
His  heart  stands  still  and  listens  like 

his  ear. 

The  guide,  as  if  he  heard  a  dead-bell 
toll, 

Starts,  drops  his  oar  against  the  gun 
wale's  thole, 

Crosses  himself,  and  whispers,  "A  lost 
soul !  " 

"  No,  Senor,  not  a  bird.     I   know  it 

well,  — 

It  is  the  pained  soul  of  some  infidel 
Or  cursed  heretic  that  cries  from  hell. 

"  Poor  fool  !    with  hope  still  mocking 

his  despair, 
He  wanders,  shrieking  on  the  midnight 

air 
Forhumanpity  and  for  Christian  prayer. 

"  Saints  strike  him  dumb  !     Our  Holy 

Mother  hath 
No  prayer  for  him  who,  sinning  unto 

death, 
Burns  always  in  the  furnace  of  God's 

wrath ! " 


THE  RIVER  PATH. 


343 


Thus  to  the  baptized  pagan's  cruel  lie, 
Lending  new  horror  to  that  mournful 

cry, 
The  voyager  listens,  making  no  reply. 

Dim  burns  the  boat-lamp :  shadows 
deepen  round, 

From  giant  trees  with  snake-like  creep 
ers  wound, 

And  the  black  water  glides  without  a 
sound. 

But  in  the  traveller's  heart  a  secret  sense 
Of  nature  plastic  to  benign  intents, 
And  an  eternal  good  iu  Providence, 

Lifts  to  the  starry  calm  of  heaven  his 

eyes  ; 
And  lo !  rebuking  all  earth's  ominous 

cries, 
The  Cross  of  pardon  lights  the  tropic 

skies  ! 

"  Father  of  all  1  "  he  urges  his  strong 

plea, 
"  Thou  lovest  all :  thy  erring  child  may 

be 
Lost  to  himself,  but  never  lost  to  Thee  ! 

"  All  souls  are  Thine ;  the  wings  of 
morning  bear 

None  from  that  Presence  which  is  ev 
erywhere, 

Nor  hell  itself  can  hide,  for  Thou  art 
there. 

"  Through  sins  of  sense,  perversities  of 

will, 
Through  doubt  and  pain,  through  guilt 

and  shame  and  ill. 
Thy  pitying  eye  is  on  Thy  creature  still. 

"  Wilt  thou  not  make,  Eternal  Source 

and  Goal  ! 
In  thy  long  years,  life's  broken  circle 

whole, 
And  change  to  praise  the  cry  of  a  lost 

soul?" 


ITALY. 

ACROSS  the  sea  I  heard  the  groans 
Of  nations  in  the  intervals 


Of  wind  and  wave.     Their  blood  and 

bones 

Cried  out  in  torture,  crushed  by  thrones, 
And  sucked  by  priestly  cannibals. 

I  dreamed  of  freedom  slowly  gained 

By  martyr  meekness,  patience,  faith, 
And  lo  !  an  athlete  grimly  stained, 
With  corded  muscles  battle-strained, 
Shouting  it  from  the  fields  of  death  ! 

I  turn  me,  awe-struck,  from  the  sight, 

Among  theclamoringthousandsmute, 
I  only  know  that  God  is  right, 
And  that  the  children  of  the  light 
Shall  tread  the  darkness  under  foot. 

I  know  the  pent  fire  heaves  its  crust, 
That  sultry  skies  the  bolt  will  form 
To  smite  them  clear  ;  that  Nature  must 
The  balance  of  her  powers  adjust, 
Though  with  the  earthquake  and  the 
storm. 

God  reigns,  and  let  the  earth  rejoice  ! 

I  bow  before  His  sterner  plan. 
Dumb  are  the  organs  of  my  choice  ; 
He  speaks  in  battle's  stormy  voice, 

His  praise  is  in  the  wrath  of  man  ! 

Yet,  surely  as  He  lives,  the  day 

Of  peace  He  promised  shall  be  ours, 
To  fold  the  flags  of  war,  and  lay 
Its  sword  and  spear  to  rust  away, 
And  sow  its  ghastly  fields  with  flow 
ers  ! 


THE  RIVER  PATH. 

No  bird-song  floated  down  the  hill, 
The  tangled  bank  below  was  still ; 

No  rustle  from  the  birchen  stem, 
No  ripple  from  the  water's  hem. 

The  dusk  of  twilight  round  us  grew, 
We  felt  the  falling  of  the  dew ; 

For,  from  us,  ere  the  day  was  done, 
The  wooded  hills  shut  out  the  sun. 


344 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


But  on  the  river's  farther  side 
We  saw  the  hill-tops  glorified,  — 

A  tender  glow,  exceeding  fair, 
A  dream  of  day  without  its  glare. 

With  us  the  damp,  the  chill,  the  gloom  : 
With  them  the  sunset's  rosy  bloom  ; 

While  dark,  through  willowy  vistas  seen, 
The  river  rolled  in  shade  between. 

From  out  the  darkness  where  we  trod, 
We  gazed  upon  those  hills  of  God, 

Whose  light  seemed  not  of  moon  or  sun. 
We  spake  not,  but  our  thought  was  one. 

We  paused,  as  if  from  that  bright  shore 
Beckoned  our  dear  ones  gone  before  ; 

And  stilled  our  beating  hearts  to  hear 
The  voices  lost  to  mortal  ear  ! 

Sudden  our  pathway  turned  from  night ; 
The  hills  swung  open  to  the  light ; 

Through  their  green  gates  the  sunshine 

showed, 
A  long,  slant  splendordownward  flowed. 

Down  glade  andglen  and  bank  it  rolled  ; 
It  bridged  the  shaded  stream  with  gold  ; 

And,  borne  on  piers  of  mist,  allied 
The  shadowy  with  the  sunlit  side  ! 

"  So,"  prayed  we,  "when  our  feet  draw 

near 
Tbe  river  dark,  with  mortal  fear, 

"  And  the  night  cometh  chill  with  dew, 
O  Father  !  let  thy  light  break  through! 

"  So  let  the  hills  of  doubt  divide, 
So  bridge  with  faith  the  sunless  tide  ! 

"  So  let  the  eyes  that  fail  on  earth 
On  thy  eternal  hills  look  forth  ; 

"  And  in  thy  beckoning  angels  know 
The  dear  ones  whom  we  loved  below  !  " 


A  MEMORIAL. 


O,  THICKER,  deeper,  darker  growing, 
The  solemn  vista  to  the  tomb 

Must  know  henceforth  another  shadow, 
And  give  another  cypress  room. 

In  love  surpassing  that  of  brothers, 
We  walked,    O   friend,  from    child 
hood's  day  ; 

And,  looking  back  o'er  fifty  summers, 
Our  footprints  track  a  common  way. 

One  in  our  faith,  and  one  our  longing 
To  make  the  world  within  our  reach 

Somewhat  the  better  for  our  living, 
And  gladder  for  our  human  speech. 

Thouheard'st  with  me  the  far-off  voices, 
The  old  beguiling  song  of  fame, 

But  life  to  thee  was  warm  and  present, 
And  love  was  better  than  a  name. 

Tohomely  joys  andloves  and  friendships 
Thy  genial  nature  fondly  clung ; 

And  so  the  shadow  on  the  dial 

Ran  back  and  left  thee  always  young. 

And   who   could  blame   the  generous 

weakness 

Which,  only  to  thyself  unjust, 
So  overprized  the  worth  of  others, 
And  dwarfed  thy  own  with  self-dis 
trust  ? 

All  hearts  grew  warmer  in  the  presence 
Of  one  who,  seeking  not  his  own, 

Gave  freely  for  the  love  of  giving, 
Nor  reaped  for  self  the  harvest  sown. 

Thy  greeting  smile  was    pledge    and 

prelude 

Of  generous  deeds  and  kindly  words  : 
In  thy  large  heart  were  fair  guest-cham 
bers, 
Open  to  sunrise  and  the  birds  ! 

The  task  was  thine  to  mould  and  fashion 
Life's  plastic  newness  into  grace  : 

To  make  the  boyish  heart  heroic, 
And  light  with  thought  the  maiden's 
face. 


HYMN. 


345 


O'er  all  the  land,  in  town  and  prairie, 
With  bended    heads    of   mourning, 
stand 

The  living  forms  that  owe  their  beauty 
And  fitness  to  thy  shaping  hand. 

Thy  call  has  come  in  ripened  manhood, 
The  noonday  calm  of  heart  and  mind, 

While  I,  who  dreamed  of  thy  remaining 
To  mourn  me,  linger  still  behind  : 

Live  on,  to  own,  with  self-upbraiding, 
A  debt  of  love  still  due  from  me,  — 

The  vain  remembrance  of  occasions, 
Forever  lost,  of  serving  thee. 

It  was  not  mine  among  thy  kindred 
To  join  the  silent  funeral  prayers, 

But  all  that  long  sad  day  of  summer 
My  tears  of  mourning  dropped  with 
theirs. 

|11  day  the  sea-waves  sobbed  with  sor 
row, 

The  birds  forgot  their  merry  trills : 
AH  day  I  heard  the  pines  lamenting 
With  thine  upon  thy  homestead  hills. 

Green  be  those  hillside  pines  forever, 
And  green  the  meadowy  lowlands  be, 

And  green  the  old  memorial  beeches, 
Name-carven  in  the  woods  of  Lee  ! 

Still  let  them  greet  thy  life  companions 
Who  thither  turn  their  pilgrim  feet, 

In  every  mossy  line  recalling 
A  tender  memory  sadly  sweet. 

O  friend  !  if  thought  and  sense  avail  not 
To  know  thee  henceforth  as  thou  art, 

That  all  is  well  with  thee  forever 
I  trust  the  instincts  of  my  heart. 

Thine  be  the  quiet  habitations, 

Thine  the  green  pastures,  blossom- 
sown, 

And  smiles  of  saintly  recognition, 
As  sweet  and  tender  as  thy  own. 


Thou  com'st  not  from  the  hush  and 
shadow 

To  meet  us,  but  to  thee  we  come  ; 
With  thee  we  never  can  be  strangers, 

And  where  thou  art  must  still  be  home. 


HYMN, 

SUNG  AT  CHRISTMAS    BY   THE  SCHOL 
ARS  OF  ST.  HELENA'S  ISLAND,  s.c. 

O  NONE  in  all  the  world  before 

Were  ever  glad  as  we  ! 
We  're  free  on  Carolina's  shore, 

We  're  all  at  home  and  free. 

Thou  Friend  and  Helper  of  the  poor, 

Who  suffered  for  our  sake, 
To  open  every  prison  door, 

And  every  yoke  to  break  ! 

Bend  low  thy  pitying  face  and  mild, 
And  help  us  sing  and  pray  ; 

The  hand  that  blessed  the  little  child, 
Upon  our  foreheads  lay. 

We  hear  no  more  the  driver's  horn, 

No  more  the  whip  we  fear, 
This  holy  day  that  saw  thee  born 

Was  never  half  so  dear. 

The  very  oaks  are  greener  clad, 

The  waters  brighter  smile  ; 
O  never  shone  a  day  so  glad 

On  sweet  St.  Helen's  Isle. 

We  praise  thee  in  our  songs  to-day, 

To  thee  in  prayer  we  call, 
Make  swift  the  feet  and  straight  the  way 

Of  freedom  unto  all. 

Come  once  again,  O  blessed  Lord  ! 

Come  walking  on  the  sea  ! 
And  let  the  main-lands  hear  the  word 

That  sets  the  islands  free  ! 


SNOW-BOUND 

A    WINTER    IDYL. 
1865. 


TO 

THE    MEMORY 

OF 
THE  HOUSEHOLD   IT  DESCRIBES, 

THIS   POEM   IS    DEDICATED 
BY 

THE    AUTHOR. 


"  As  the  Spirits  of  Darkness  be  stronger  in  the  dark,  so  Good  Spirits  which  be  Angels  of 
Light  are  augmented  not  only  by  the  Divine  light  of  the  Sun,  but  also  by  our  common 
Wood  Fire  :  and  as  the  Celestial  Fire  drives  away  dark  spirits,  so  also  this  our  Fire  of 
Wood  doth  the  same." 

COR.  AGRIPPA,  Occult  Philosophy,  Book  I.  chap.  T. 

"  Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  skv. 
Arrives  the  snow  ;  and,  driving  o'er  the  nelds, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight  ;  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm." 

EMERSOIT. 


SNOW-BOUND. 


THE  sun  that  brief  December  day 
Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 
And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 
A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 
Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 
Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 
A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 
Jt  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 
A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 
Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out, 
A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 

That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling 
race 

Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 
The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 
,  The  wind  blew  east  :  we  heard  the  roar 
Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 
And  felt  the   strong  pulse  throbbing 

there 
Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores,  — 
Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors, 
Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Raked  down  the  herd's-grass  for  the 

cows  : 
Heard   the   horse   whinnying   for    his 

corn  ;   > 

And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  hom, 
Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows  ; 
While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 
Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 
The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent 
And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent. 

Unwarmecl  by  any  sunset  light 
The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 
A  night  made  hoary  with  flie  swarm 
And  whirl-dance  of1  the  blinding  storm, 
As  zigzag  wavering  to  and  fro 


Crossed    and    recrossed     the    winge'd 

snow  : 

And  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 
The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 
And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line 

posts 
Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts. 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on  : 

The  morning  broke  without  a  sun; 

In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 

Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 

In  starry  flake,  and  pellicle, 

All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell ; 

And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 

We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below,  — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow  ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvellous  shapes;  strange  domes 

and  towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 
Or  garden  wall,  or  belt  of  wood  ; 
A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile 

showed, 

A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road  ; 
The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat 
With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked 

hat: 

The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof; 
And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 
In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 
Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle. 

A  prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted  :  "  Boys,  a  path  !  " 
Well  pleased,  (for  when  did  farmer  boy 
Count  such  a  summons  less  than  joy  ?) 


352 


SNOW-BOUND. 


Our  buskins  on  our  feet  \ve  drew; 

With  mittened  hands,  and  Aps  drawn 
low, 

To  guard   our  necks  and  ears  from 

snow 

We  cut  the  solid  \vhiteness  through. 
And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 
A  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid 
With  dazzling  crystal  :  we  had  read 
Of  rare  Aladdin's  wondrous  cave, 
And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 
With  many  a  wish  the  luck  were  ours 
To  test  his  lamp's  supernal  powers. 
We  reached  the  barn  with  merry  din, 
And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 
The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out, 
And  grave  with  wonder  gazed  about ; 
The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said, 
And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led ; 
The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked, 
And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked; 
The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 
Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep, 
Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture  mute, 
And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 

All  day  the  gusty  north-wind  bore 
The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before  ; 
Low  circling  round  its  southern  zone, 
The   sun   through   dazzling  snow-mist 

shone. 

No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian  tone 
To  the  savage  air,  no  social  smoke 
Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak. 
A  solitude  made  more  intense 
By  dreary-voiced  elements, 
The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind, 
The    moaning     tree-boughs     swaying 

blind, 

And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 
Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet. 
Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 
No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 
Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 
Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 
We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear 
The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 
The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 
Had  been  to  us  companionship, 
And,  in  our  lonely  life,  had  grown 
To  have  an  almost  human  tone. 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 
Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 


The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 
From    sight  beneath   the    smothering 

_bank,t 

We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly  stack 
Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back, — 
The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick  ; 
The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart, 
And  filled  between  with  curious  art 
The  ragged  brush  ;  then,  hovering  near, 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 
Heard  the   sharp  crackle,  caught  the 

gleam 

On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 
Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room 
Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom  ; 
While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 
Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 
And   through  the  bare-boughed  lilac- 
tree 
Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing 

free. 
The    crane     and     pendent    trammels 

showed, 
The   Turks'   heads    on    the    andirons 

glowed ; 

While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 
The  meaning  of  the  miracle, 
Whispered   the   old  rhyme  :    "  Under 

the  tree, 

W 'hen  fire  outdoors  burns  merrily, 
There  the  witches  are  making  tea" 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 
Shone  at  its  full ;  the  hill-range  stood 
Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood, 
Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 
Dead  white,   save  where  some  sharp 

ravine 

Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 
Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 
Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back. 
For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 
Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light. 
Which  only  seemed  where'er  it  fell 
To  make  the  coldness  visible. 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without, 
We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about, 
Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 
In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 
While  the*  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat ; 
And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 


SNOW-BOUND. 


353 


Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 
The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney 

laughed, 

The  house-do.;  on  his  paws  outspread 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 
The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 
A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall ; 
And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 
Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet, 
The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 
The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 
And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 

What  matter  how  the  night  behaved  ? 
What     matter     how    the     north-wind 

raved  ? 

Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 
Could  quench  our  hearth-fire's  ruddy 

glow. 
O   Time  and  Change  !  —  with  hair  as 

gray 

As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day, 
How  strange  it  seems,  with  so  much 

gone 

Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on  1 
Ah,  brother  !  only  I  and  thou 
Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now,  — 
The  dear  home  faces  whereupon 
That  fitful  firelight  paled  and  shone. 
Henceforward,  listen  as  we  will, 
The  voices  of  that  hearth  are  still  ; 
Look  where  we   may,  the  wide  earth 

o'er, 

Those  lighted  faces  smile  no  more. 
We   tread  the   paths  their  feet    have 

worn, 

We  sit  beneath  their  orchard -trees, 
We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees 
And  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn  ; 
We  turn  the  pages  that  they  read, 

Their  written  words  we  linger  o'er, 
But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade, 
No  voice  is  heard,'  no  sign  is  made, 
No  step  is  on  the  conscious  floor  ! 
Yet   Love  will  dream,  and  Faith  will 

trust, 

(Since  He  who  knows  our  need  is  just,) 
That  somehow,  somewhere,  meet  we 

must. 

Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 
The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress- 
trees  ! 

23 


Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away, 
Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Across  the  mournful  marbles  play  ! 
Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith, 

The  truth  to  fleshand  sense  unknown, 
That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death, 

And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own  1 

We  sped  the  time  with  stories  old, 
Wrought  puzzles  out,  and  riddles  told, 
Or  stammered   from   our  school-book 

lore 

"  The  Chief  of  Gambia's  golden  shore." 
How  often  since,  when  all  the  land 
Was  clay  in  Slavery's  shaping  hand, 
As  if  a  trumpet  called,  I  've  heard 
Dame  Mercy  Warren's  rousing  word  : 
"  Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry, 

Claim  tJie  first  right  which  Nature 

gave, 
From  the  red  scourge  of  bondage  fly, 

Nor  deign  to  live  a  burdened  slave  !" 
Our  father  rode  again  his  ride 
On  Memphremagog's  wooded  side  ; 
Sat  down  again  to  moose  and  samp 
In  trapper's  hut  and  Indian  camp; 
Lived  o'er  the  old  idyllic  ease 
Beneath  St.  Francois'  hemlock-trees  ; 
Again  for  him  the  moonlight  shone 
On  Norman  cap  and  bodiced  zone  ; 
Again  he  heard  the  violin  play 
Which  led  the  village  dance  away, 
And  mingled  in  its  merry  whirl 
The  grandam  and  the  laughing  girl. 
Or,  nearer  home,  our  steps  he  led 
Where  Salisbury's  level  marshes  spread 

Mile-wide  as  flies  the  laden  bee  ; 
Where  merry  mowers,  hale  and  strong, 
Swept,  scythe  on  scythe,  their  swaths 
along 

The  low  green  prairies  of  the  sea. 
We  shared  the  fishing  off  Boar's  Head, 

And  round  the  rocky  Isles  of  Shoals 

The    hake-broil    on   the    drift-wood 

coals  ; 

The  chowder  on  the  sand-beach  made, 
Dipped  by  the  hungry,  steaming  hot, 
With  spoons  of  clam-shell  from  the  pot. 
We  fleard  the  tales  of  witchcraft  old, 
And  dream  and  sign  and  marvel  told 
To  sleepy  listeners  as  they  lay 
Stretched  idly  on  the  salted  hay, 
Adrift  along  the  winding  shores, 
When  favoring  breezes  deigned  to  blow 


354 


SNOW-BOUND. 


The  square  sail  of  the  gundelow 
And  idle  lay  the  useless  oars. 

Our  mother,  while  she  turned  her  wheel 
Or  run  the  new-knit  stocking-heel, 
Told  how  the  Indian  hordes  came  down 
At  midnight  on  Cochecho  town, 
And  how  her  own  great- uncle  bore 
His  cruel  scalp-mark  to  fourscore. 
Recalling,  in  her  fitting  phrase, 
So  rich  and  picturesque  and  free, 
(The  common  unrhymed  poetry 
Of  simple  life  and  country  ways,) 
The  story  of  her  early  days,  — 
She  made  us  welcome  to  her  home  ; 
Old  hearths  grew  wide  togive  us  room  ; 
We  stole  with  her  a  frightened  look 
At  the  gray  wizard's  conjuring-book, 
The  fame  whereof  went  far  and  wide 
Through  all  the  simple  country  side  ; 
We  heard  the  hawks  at  twilight  play, 
The  boat-horn  on  Piscataqua, 
The  loon's  weird  laughter  far  away  ; 
We  fished  her  little  trout-brook,  knew 
What  flowers  in  wpodand  meadow  grew, 
What  sunny  hillsides  autumn-brown 
She  climbed  to  shake  the  ripe  nutsdown, 
Saw  where  in  sheltered  cove  and  bay 
The  ducks'  black   squadron   anchored 

lay, 

And  heard  the  wild-geese  calling  loud 
Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud. 

Then,  haply,  with  a  look  more  grave, 
And  soberer  tone,  some  tale  she  gave 
From  painful  Sewell's  ancient  tome, 
Beloved  in  every  Quaker  home, 
Of  faith  fire-winged  by  martyrdom, 
Or  Chalkley's  Journal,  old  and  quaint,  — 
Gentlest  of  skippers,  rare  sea-saint  !  — 
Who,  when  the  dreary  calms  prevailed, 
And  water-butt  and  bread-cask  failed, 
And  cruel,  hungry  eyes  pursued 
His  portly  presence  mad  for  food, 
With  dark  hints  muttered  under  breath 
Of  casting  lots  for  life  or  death, 
Offered,  if  Heaven  withheld  supplies, 
To  be  himself  the  sacrifice. 
Then,  suddenly,  as  if  to  save 
The  good  man  from  his  living  grave, 
A  ripple  on  the  water  grew, 
A  school  of  porpoise  flashed  in  view. 
"Take,  eat,"  he  said,  "and  be  content ; 
These  fishes  in  my  stead  are  sent 


By  Him  who  gave  the  tangled  ram 
To  spare  the  child  of  Abraham," 

Our  uncle,  innocent  of  bookjs, 
Was  rich  in  lore  of  fields  and  brooks, 
The  ancient  teachers  never  dumb 
Of  Nature's  unhoused  lyceum. 
In  moons  and  tides  and  weather  wise, 
He  read  the  clouds  as  prophecies, 
And  foul  or  fair  could  well  divine, 
By  many  an  occult  hint  and  sign, 
Holding  the  cunning-warded  keys 
To  all  the  woodcraft  mysteries  ; 
Himself  to  Nature's  heart  so  near 
That  all  her  voices  in  his  ear 
Of  beast  or  bird  had  meanings  clear, 
Like  Apollonius  of  old, 
Who  knew  the  tales  the  sparrows  told 
Or  Hermes,  who  interpreted 
What  the  sage  cranes  of  Nilus  said  ; 
A  simple,  guileless,  childlike  man, 
Content  to  live  where  life  began  ; 
Strong  only  on  his  native  grounds, 
The  little  world  of  sights  and  sounds 
Whose  girdle  was  the  parish  bounds, 
Whereof  his  fondly  partial  pride 
The  common  features  magnified, 
As  Surrey  hills  to  mountains  grew 
In  White  of  Selborne's  loving  view,  — 
He  told  how  teal  and  loon  he  shot, 
And  how  the  eagle's  eggs  he  got, 
The  feats  on  pond  and  river  done, 
The  prodigies  of  rod  and  gun  ; 
Till,  warming  with  the  tales  he  told, 
Forgotten  was  the  outside  cold, 
The  bitter  wind  unheeded  blew, 
From  ripening  corn  the  pigeons  flew, 
The   partridge   drummed  i'  the  wood, 

the  mink 

Went  fishing  down  the  river-brink. 
In  fields  with  bean  or  clover  gay, 
The  woodchuck,  like  a  hermit  gray, 

Peered  from  the  doorway  of  his  cell ; 
The  muskrat  plied  the  mason's  trade, 
And  tier  by  tier  his  mud-walls  laid; 
And  from  the  shagbark  overhead 

Thegrizzledsquirrel  droppedhis shell. 

Next,  the   dear  aunt,  whose  smile  of 

cheer 

And  voice  in  dreams  I  see  and  hear,  — 
The  sweetest  woman  ever  Fate 
Perverse  denied  a  household  mate, 
Who,  lonely,  homeless,  not  the  less 


S NOW-BOUND. 


355 


Found  peace  in  love's  unselfishness, 
And  welcome  wheresoe'er  she  went, 
A  calm  and  gracious  element, 
Whose  presence  seemed  the  sweet  in 
come 

And  womanly  atmosphere  of  home,  — 
Called  up  her  girlhood  memories, 
The  huskings  and  the  apple-bees, 
The  sleigh-rides  and  the  summer  sails, 
Weaving  through  all  the  poor  details 
And  homespun  warp  of  circumstance 
A  golden  woof-thread  of  romance. 
For  well  she  kept  her  genial  mood 
And  simple  faith  of  maidenhood  ; 
Before  her  still  a  cloud-land  lay, 
The  mirage  loomed  across  her  way  ; 
The  morning  dew,  that  dries  so  soon 
With  others,  glistened  at  her  noon  ; 
Through  years  of  toil  and  soil  and  care, 
From  glossy  tress  to  thin  gray  hair, 
All  unprofaned  she  held  apart 
The  virgin  fancies  of  the  heart. 
Be  shame  to  him  of  woman  born 
Who  hath  for  such  but  thought  of  scorn. 

There,  top,  our  elder  sister  plied 
Her  evening  task  the  stand  beside  ; 
A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust, 
Truthful  and  almost  sternly  just, 
Impulsive,  earnest,  prompt  to  act, 
And  make  her  generous  thought  a  fact, 
Keeping  with  many  a  light  disguise 
The  secret  of  self-sacrifice. 
O  heart  sore-tried  !  thou  hast  the  best 
That  Heaven  itself  could  give  thee,  — 

rest, 

Rest  from  all  bitter  thoughts  and  things ! 

How  many  a  poor  one's  blessing  went 

With  thee  beneath  the  low  green  tent 

Whose  curtain  never  outward  swings  ! 

As  one  who  held  herself  a  part 
Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 

Against  the  household  bosom  lean, 
Upon  the  motley-braided  mat 
Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat, 
Lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes, 

Now  bathed  within  the  fadeless  green 
And  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 
O,  looking  from  some  heavenly  hill, 

Or  from  the  shade  of  saintly  palms, 

Or  silver  reach  of  river  cairns, 
Do  those  large  eyes  behold  me  still  ? 
With  me  one  little  year  ago  :  — 


The  chill  weight  of  the  winter  snow 

For  months  upon  her  grave  has  lain  ; 
And  now,  when  summer  south-winds 
blow 

And  brier  and  harebell  bloom  again, 
I  tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod, 
I  see  the  violet-sprinkled  sod 
Whereon  she  leaned,  too  frail  and  weak 
The  hillside  flowers  she  loved  to  seek, 
Yet  following  me  where'er  I  went 
With  dark  eyes  full  of  love's  content. 
The  birds  are  glad  ;  the  brier-rose  fills 
The  air  with  sweetness;  all  the  hills 
Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded  sky  ; 
But  still  I  wait  with  ear  and  eye 
For  something  gone  which  should  be 

nigh, 

A  loss  in  all  familiar  things, 
In   flower  that  blooms,  and  bird  that 

sings. 

And    yet,    dear    heart !    remembering 
thee, 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old? 
Safe  in  thy  immortality, 

What  change  can  reach  the  wealth  I 
hold  ? 

What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl  and 

gold 

Thy  love  hath  left  in  trust  with  me? 
And  while  in  life's  late  afternoon, 

Where   cool   and  long  the  shadows 

grow, 
I  walk  to  meet  the  night  that  soon 

Shall  shape  and  shadow  overflow, 
I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far, 
Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are  ; 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  waiting  stand, 
And,  white  against  the  evening  star, 

The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand  ? 

Brisk  wielder  of  the  birch  and  rule, 
The  master  of  the  district  school 
Held  at  the  fire  his  favored  place, 
Its  warm  glow  lit  a  laughing  face 
Fresh-hoed  and  fair,  where  scarce  ap 
peared 

The  uncertain  prophecy  of  beard. 
He  teased  the  mitten-blinded  cat, 
Played  cross-pins  on  my  uncle's  hat, 
Sang  songs,  and  told  us  what  befalls 
In  classic  Dartmouth's  college  halls. 
Born  the  wild  Northern  hills  among, 
From  whence  his  yeoman  father  wrung 


356 


SNOW-BOUND. 


By  patient  toil  subsistence  scant, 
Not  competence  and  yet  not  want, 
He  early  gained  the  power  to  pay 
His  cheerful,  self-reliant  way  ; 
Could  doffat  ease  his  scholar's  gown 
To  peddle  wares  from  town  to  town  ; 
Or  through  the  long  vacation's  reach 
In  lonely  lowland  districts  teach, 
Where  all  the  droll  experience  found 
At  stranger  hearths  in  boarding  round, 
The  moonlit  skater's  keen  delight, 
The    sleigh-drive   through   the    frosty 

night, 

The  rustic  party,  with  its  rough 
Accompaniment  of  blind-man's-buff, 
And  whirling  plate,  and  forfeits  paid, 
His  winter  task  a  pastime  made. 
Happy  the  snow-locked  homes  wherein 
He  tuned  his  merry  violin, 
Or  played  the  athlete  in  the  barn, 
Or  held  the  good  dame's  winding-yam, 
Or  mirth-provoking  versions  told 
Of  classic  legends  rare  and  old, 
Wherein    the    scenes  of   Greece   and 

Rome 

Had  all  the  commonplace  of  home, 
And  little  seemed  at  best  the  odds 
'Twixt  Yankee  pedlers  and  old  gods  ; 
Where  Pindus-born  Araxes  took 
The  guise  of  any  grist-mill  brook, 
And  dread  Olympus  at  his  will 
Became  a  huckleberry  hill. 

A  careless  boy  that  night  he  seemed  ; 

But  at  his  desk  he  had  the  look 
And  air  of  one  who  wisely  schemed, 
And  hostage  from  the  future  took 
In  trained  thought  and  lore  of  book. 
Large-brained,  clear-eyed, —  of  such  as 

he 

Shall  Freedom's  young  apostles  be, 
Who,  following  in  War's  bloody  trail, 
Shall  every  lingering  wrong  assail  ; 
All  chains  from  limb  and  spirit  strike, 
Uplift  the  black  and  white  alike ; 
Scatter  before  their  swift  advance 
The  darkness  and  the  ignorance, 
The  pride,  the  lust,  the  squalid  sloth, 
Which  nurtured  Treason's  monstrous 

growth, 

Made  murder  pastime,  and  the  hell 
Of  prison-torture  possible  ; 
The  cruel  lie  of  caste  refute, 
Old  forms  remould,  and  substitute 


For  Slavery's  lash  the  freeman's  will, 
For  blind  routine,  wise-handed  skill ; 
A  school-house  plant  on  every  hill, 
Stretching  in  radiate  nerve-lines  thence 
The  quick  wires  of  intelligence  ; 
Till  North  and  South  together  brought 
Shall  own  the  same  electric  thought, 
In  peace  a  common  flag  salute, 
And,  side  by  side  in  labor's  free 
And  unresentful  rivalry, 
Harvest  the  fields  wherein  they  fought. 

Another  guest  that  winter  night 
Flashed   back   from  lustrous   eves  the 

light. 

Unmarked  by  time,  and  yet  not  young, 
The  honeyed  music  of  her  tongue 
And  words  of  meekness  scarcely  told 
A  nature  passionate  and  bold. 
Strong,  self-concentred,  spurning  guide, 
Its  milder  features  dwarfed  beside 
Her  unbent  will's  majestic  pride. 
She  sat  among  us,  at  the  best, 
A  not  unfeared,  half-welcome  guest, 
Rebuking  with  her  cultured  phrase 
Our  homeliness  of  words  and  ways. 
A  certain  pard-like,  treacherous  grace 
Swayed  the  lithe  limbs  and  drooped 

the  lash, 
Lent  the  white  teeth  their  dazzling 

flash  ; 
And   under  low  brows,   black  with 

night, 
Rayed    out    at   times    a   dangerous 

light ; 

The  sharp  heat-lightnings  of  her  face 
Presaging  ill  to  him  whom  Fate 
Condemned  to  share  her  love  or  hate. 
A  woman  tropical,  intense 
In  thought  and  act,  in  soul  and  sense, 
She  blended  in  a  like  degree 
The  vixen  and  the  devotee, 
Revealing  with  each  freak  or  feint 
The  temper  of  Petruchio's  Kate, 
The  raptures  of  Siena's  saint. 
Her  tapering  hand  and  rounded  wrist 
Had  facile  power  to  form  a  fist ; 
The  warm,  dark  languish  of  her  eyes 
Was  never  safe  from  wrath's  surprise. 
Brows  saintly  calm  and  lips  devout 
Knew  every  change  of  scowl  and  pout 
And  the  sweet  voice  had  notes   more 

high 
And  shrill  for  social  battle-cry. 


SNOW-BOUND. 


357 


Since  then  what  old  cathedral  town 
Has  missed  her  pilgrim  staff  and  gown, 
What  convent-gate  has  held  its  lock 
Against  the  challenge  of  her  knock  ! 
Through  Smyrna's  plague-hushed  thor 
oughfares, 

Up  sea-set  Malta's  rocky  stairs, 
Gray  olive  slopes  of  hills  that  hem 
Thy  tombs  and  shrines,  Jerusalem, 
Or  startling  on  her  desert  throne 
The  crazy  Queen  of  Lebanon 
With  claims  fantastic  as  her  own, 
Her  tireless  feet  have  held  their  way  ; 
And  still,  unrestful,  bowed,  and  gray, 
She  watches  under  Eastern  skies, 

With  hope  each  day  renewed  and 
fresh, 

The  Lord's  quick  coming  in  the  flesh, 
Whereof  she  dreams  and  prophesies  ! 

Where'er  her  troubled  path  may  be, 

The  Lord's  sweet  pity  with  her  go  ! 
The  outward  wayward  life  we  see, 

The  hidden  springs  we  may  not  know. 
Nor  is  it  given  us  to  discern 

What  threads  the  fatal  sisters  spun, 

Through  what  ancestral  years  has  run 
The  sorrow  with  the  woman  born, 
What  forged  her  cruel  chain  of  moods, 
What  set  her  feet  in  solitudes, 

And  held  the  love  within  her  mute, 
What  mingled  madness  in  the  blood, 

A  life-long  discord  and  annoy, 

Water  of  tears  with  oil  of  joy, 
And  hid  within  the  folded  bud 

Perversities  of  flower  and  fruit. 
It  is  not  ours  to  separate 
The  tangled  skein  of  will  and  fate, 
To  show  what  metes  and  bounds  should 

stand 

Upon  the  soul's  debatable  land, 
And  between  choice  and  Providence 
Divide  the  circle  of  events; 

But  He  who  knows  our  frame  is  just, 
Merciful  and  compassionate, 
And  full  of  sweet  assurances 
And  hope  for  all  the  language  is, 

That  He  remembereth  we  are  dust ! 

At  last  the  great  logs,  crumbling  low, 
Sent  out  a  dull  and  duller  glow, 
The  bull's-eye  watch  that  hung  in  view, 
Ticking  its  weary  circuit  through, 
Pointed  with  mutely-warning  sign 


Its  black  hand  to  the  hour  of  nine. 
That  sign  the  pleasant  circle  broke  : 
My  uncle  ceased  his  pipe  to  smoke, 
Knocked  from  its  bowl  the  refuse  gray 
And  laid  it  tenderly  away, 
Then  roused  himself  to  safely  cover 
The  dull  red  brands  with  ashes  over. 
And  while,  with  care,  our  mother  laid 
The  work  aside,  her  steps  she  stayed 
One  moment,  seeking  to  express 
Her  grateful  sense  of  happiness 
For    food    and    shelter,    warmth    and 

health, 
And   love's    contentment    more    than 

wealth, 

With  simple  wishes  (not  the  weak, 
Vain  prayers  which  no  fulfilment  seek, 
But  such  as  warm  the  generous  heart, 
O'er-prompt  to  do  with  Heaven  its  part) 
That  none  might  lack,  that  bitter  night, 
For  bread   and  clothing,  warmth   and 

light. 

Within  our  beds  awhile  we  heard 
The  wind  that  round  the  gables  roared, 
With  now  and  then  a  ruder  shock, 
Which  made  our  very  bedsteads  rock. 
We  heard  the  loosened  clapboards  tost, 
The  board-nails  snapping  in  the  frost ; 
And  on  us,  through  the  unplasterecl  wall, 
Felt  the  light  sifted  snow-flakes  fall. 
But  sleep  stole  on,  as  sleep  will  do 
When  hearts  are  light  and  life  is  new  ; 
Faint   and   more    faint    the    murmurs 

grew, 

Till  in  the  summer-land  of  dreams 
They  softened  to  the  sound  of  streams, 
Low  stir  of  leaves,  and  dip  of  oars, 
And  lapsing  waves  on  quiet  shores. 

Next  morn  we  wakened  with  the  shout 
Of  merry  voices  high  and  clear  ; 
And  saw  the  teamsters  drawing  near 
To  break  the  drifted  highways  out. 
Down  the  long  hillside  treading  slow 
We  saw  the  half-buvied  oxen  go, 
Shaking  the  snow  from  heads  uptost, 
Their  straining  nostrils  white  with  frost. 
Before  our  door  the  straggling  train 
Drew  up,  an  added  team  to  gain. 
The  elders  threshed  their  hands  a-cold, 

Passed,   with  the    cider-mug,    their 
jokes 

From  lip  to  lip  ;  the  younger  folks 


353 


SNOW-BOUND. 


Down  the  loose  snow-banks,  wrestling, 

rolled. 
Then  toiled  again  the  cavalcade 

O'er    windy    hill,    through    clogged 

ravine, 

And  woodland  paths  that  wound  be 
tween 

Low    drooping    pine  -  boughs   winter- 
weighed. 

From  every  barn  a  team  afoot, 
At  every  house  a  new  recruit, 
Where,  drawn  by  Nature's  subtlest  law 
Haply  the  watchful  young  men  saw 
Sweet  doorway  pictures  of  the  curls 
And  curious  eyes  of  merry  girls, 
Lifting  their  hands  in  mock  defence 
Against  the  snow-ball's  compliments, 
And  reading  in  each  missive  tost 
The  charm  with  Eden  never  lost. 

We  heard  once  more  the  sleigh-bells' 
sound  ; 

And,  following  where  the  teamsters 

led, 

The  wise  old  Doctor  went  his  round, 
Just  pausing  at  our  door  to  say, 
In  the  brief  autocratic  way 
Of  one  who,  prompt  at  Duty's  call, 
Was  free  to  urge  her  claim  on  all, 

That  some  poor  neighbor  sick  abed 
At  night  pur  mother's  aid  would  need. 
For,  one  in  generous  thought  and  deed, 

What  mattered  in  the  sufferer's  sight 

The  Quaker  matron's  inward  light, 
The  Doctor's  mail  of  Calvin's  creed  ? 
All  hearts  confess  the  saints  elect 

Who,  twain  in  faith,  in  love  agree, 
And  melt  not  in  an  acid  sect 

The  Christian  pearl  of  charity  ! 

So  days  went  on  :   a  week  had  passed 
Since  the  great  world  was  heard  from 

last. 

The  Almanac  we  studied  o'er. 
Read  and  reread  our  little  store, 
Of  books    and    pamphlets,    scarce    a 

score  ; 

One  harmless  novel,  mostly  hid 
From  younger  eyes,  a  book  forbid, 
And  poetry,  (or  good  or  bad, 
A  single  book  was  ail  we  had,) 
Where    Eilwood's  meek,   drab-skirted 

Muse, 
A  stranger  to  the  heathen  Nine, 


Sang,  with  a  somewhat  nasal  whine, 
The  wars  of  David  and  the  Jews. 
At  last  the  floundering  carrier  bore 
The  village  paper  to  our  door. 
Lo  !  broadening  outward  as  we  read, 
To  warmer  zones  the  horizon  spread; 
In  panoramic  length  unrolled 
We  saw  the  marvels  that  it  told. 
Before  us  passed  the  painted  Creeks, 

And  daft  McGregor  on  his  raids 

In  Costa  Rica's  everglades. 
And  up  Taygetos  winding  slow 
Rode  Ypsilanti's  Mainote  Greeks, 
A  Turk's  head  at  each  saddle-bow  ! 
Welcome  to  us  its  week- old  news, 
Its  corner  for  the  rustic  Muse, 

Its  monthly  gauc:e  of  snow  and  rain, 
Its  record,  mingling  in  a  breath 
The  wedding  knell  and  dirge  of  death; 
Jest,  anecdote,  and  love-lorn  tale, 
The  latest  culprit  sent  to  jail ; 
Its  hue  and  cry  of  stolen  and  lost, 
Its  vendue  sales  and  goods  at  cost, 

And  traffic  calling  loud  for  gain. 
We  felt  the  stir  of  hall  and  street, 
The  pulse  of  life  that  round  us  beat; 
The  chill  embargo  of  the  snow 
Was  melted  in  the  genial  glow; 
Wide  swung  again  our  ice-locked  door, 
And  all  the  world  was  ours  once  more  ! 

Clasp,  Angel  of  the  backward  look 
And  folded  wings  of  ashen  gray 
And  voice  of  echoes  far  away, 
The  brazen  covers  of  thy  book  ; 
The  weird  palimpsest  old  and  vast, 
Wherein  thou  hid'st  the  spectral  past; 
Where,  closely  mingling,  pale  and  glow 
The  characters  of  joy  and  woe  ; 
The  monographs  of  outlived  years, 
Or  smile-illumed  or  dim  with  tears, 

Green  hills  of  life  that  slope  to  death, 
And  haunts  of  home,  whose  vistaed  trees 
Shade  off  to  mournful  cypresses 
With   the  white    amaranths    under 
neath. 

Even  while  I  look,  I  can  but  heed 
The  restless  sands'  incessant  fall, 
Importunate  hours  that  hours  succeed, 
Each   clamorous   with  its  own    sharp 

need, 

And  duty  keeping  pace  with  all. 
Shut  down  and  clasp  the  heavy  lids ; 
I  hear  again  the  voice  that  bids 


SNOIV-BOUND. 


359 


The  dreamer  leave  his  dream  midway 
For  larger  hopes  and  graver  fears : 
Life  greatens  in  these  later  years, 
The  century's  aloe  flowers  to-day  ! 

Yet,  haply,  in  some  lull  of  life, 

Some  Truce  of  God  which  breaks  its 

strife, 
The  worldling's  eyes  shall  gather  dew, 

Dreaming  in  throngful  city  ways 
Of  winter  joys  his  boyhood  knew  ; 
And  dear  arid  early  friends  —  the  few 
Who  yet  remain  —  shall  pause  to  view 

These  Flemish  pictures  of  old  days ; 


Sit  with  me  by  the  homestead  hearth, 
And    stretch    the    hands    of   memory 

forth 
To  warm  them  at  the    wood-fire's 

blaze  ! 

And  thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown 
Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown, 
Or  lilies  floating" in  some  pond, 
Wood-fringed,  the  wayside  gaze  beyond; 
The  traveller  owns  the  grateful  sense 
Of  sweetness  near,  he  knowsnot  whence, 
And,  pausing,  takes  wi)  h  forehead  bare 
The  benediction  of  the  air. 


THE 

TENT   ON   THE    BEACH, 

AND 

OTHER    POEMS. 

1867. 


I  WOULD  not  sin,  in  this  half-playful  strain,  — 

Too  light  perhaps  for  serious  years,  though  born 
Of  the  enforced  leisure  of  slow  pain,  — 

Against  the  pure  ideal  which  has  drawn 
My  feet  to  follow  its  far-shining  gleam. 
A  simple  plot  is  mine  :  legends  and  runes 
Of  credulous  days,  old  fancies  that  have  lain 
Silent  from  boyhood  taking  voice  again, 
Warmed  into  life  once  more,  even  as  the  tunes 
That,  frozen  in  the  fabled  hunting-horn, 
Thawed  into  sound  :  —  a  winter  fireside  dream 
Of  dawns  and  sunsets  by  the  summer  sea, 
Whose  sands  are  traversed  by  a  silent  throng 
Of  voyagers  from  that  vaster  mystery 
Of  which  it  is  an  emblem  ;  —  and  the  dear 
Memory  of  one  who  might  have  tuned  my  soug 
To  sweeter  music  by  her  delicate  ear. 

ist  tno.,  1867. 


THE   TENT   ON   THE    BEACH. 


WHEN  heats  as  of  a  tropic  clime 
Burned    all    our     inland    valleys 

through, 
Three  friends,  the  guests  of  summer 

time, 

Pitched  their  white  tent  where  sea- 
winds  blew. 
Behind  them,  marshes,  seamed  and 

crossed 

With  narrow  creeks,  and  flower-em 
bossed, 
Stretched  to  the  dark  oak  wood,  whose 

leafy  arms 

Screened  from   the   stormy   East    the 
pleasant  inland  farms. 

At  full  of  tide  their  bolder  shore 
Of  sun -bleached  sand  the   waters 

beat  ; 

At  ebb,  a  smooth  and  glistening  floor 
They  touched  with  light,  receding 

feet. 
Northward  a  green  bluff  broke   the 

chain 
Of  sand-hills  ;  southward   stretched 

a  plain 
Of  salt   grass,    with    a   river  winding 

down, 

Sail-whitened,  and  beyond  the  steeples 
of  the  town, 

Whence  sometimes,  when  the  wind 

was  light 

And  dull  the  thunder  of  the  beach, 
They  heard  the   bells  of  morn  and 

.  ™§nt 
Swing,    miles    away,    their    silver 

speech. 

Above  low  scarp  and  turf-grown  wall 
Tney  saw  the  fort-flag  rise  and  fall ; 


And,  the  first  star  to  signal  twilight's 

hour, 
The  lamp-fire  glimmer  down  from  the 

tall  light-house  tower. 

They  rested  there,  escaped  awhile 

From  cares  that  wear  the  life  away, 
To  eat  the  lotus  of  the  Nile 

And  drink  the  poppies  of  Cathay,  — 
To  fling  their  loads  of  custom  down, 
Like  drift-weed,  on  the  sand-slopes 

brown, 
And  in  the  sea  waves  drown  the  restless 

pack 

Of  duties,  claims,  and  needs  that  barked 
upon  their  track. 

One,  with  his  beard  scarce  silvered, 

bore 

A  ready  credence  in  his  looks, 
A  lettered  magnate,  lording  o'er 

An  ever-widening  realm  of  books. 
In  him  brain -currents,  near  and  far, 
Converged  as  in  a  Leyden  jar ; 
The  old,   dead  authors  ^hronged  him 

round  about, 

And  Elzevir's  gray  ghosts  from  leathern 
graves  looked  out. 

He  knew  each  living  pundit  well, 

Could  weigh  the  gifts  of  him  or  her, 
And  well  the  market  value  tell 

Of  poet  and  philosopher. 
But  if  he  lost,  the  scenes  behind, 
Somewhat  of  reverence   vague   and 

blind, 

Finding  the  actors  human  at  the  best, 
No  readier  lips  than  his  the  good  he 
saw  confessed. 

His  boyhood  fancies  not  outgrown, 
He  loved  himself  the  singer's  art ; 


THE    TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 


Tenderly,  gently,  by  his  own 

He  knew  and  judged  an  author's 

heart. 

No  Rhadamanthine  brow  of  doom 
Bowed   the   dazed  pedant   from   his 

room  ; 
And  bards,  whose  name  is  legion,   if 

denied, 

Bore  off  alike  intact  their  verses  and 
their  pride. 

Pleasant  it  was  to  roam  about 

The  lettered  world  as  he  had  done, 
And  see  the  lords  of  song  without 
Their  singing  robes  and  garlands 

on. 
With     Wordsworth    paddle    Rydal 

mere, 
Taste  rugged  Elliott's  home-brewed 

beer, 

And  with  the  ears  of  Rogers,  at  four 
score, 

Hear    Garrick's    buskined    tread    and 
Walpole's  wit  once  more. 

And  one  there  was,  a  dreamer  born, 

Who,  with  a  mission  to  fulfil, 
Had  left  the  Muses'  haunts  to  turn 

The  crank  of  an  opinion-mill, 
Making  his  rustic  reed  of  song 
A  weapon  in  the  war  with  wrong, 
Yoking  his  fancy  to  the  breaking-plough 
That   beam-deep   turned   the    soil  for 
truth  to  spring  and  grow. 

Too  quiet  seemed  the  man  to  ride 
The  wingec^Hippogriff  Reform ; 
Was  his  a  voice  from  side  to  side 

To  pierce  the  tumult  of  the  storm  ? 
A  silent,  shy,  peace-loving  man, 
He  seemed  no  fiery  partisan 
To  hold  his  wayagainst  the  public  frown, 
The  ban  of  Church  and  State,  the  fierce 
mob's  hounding  down. 

For  while  he  wrought  with  strenuous 

will 

The  work  his  hands  had  found  todo, 
He  heard  the  fitful  music  still 
Of  winds  that  out   of  dream-land 

blew. 

The  din  about  him  could  not  drown 
What  the  strange  voices  whispered 
down  ; 


Along  his  task-field  weird  processions 

swept, 
The  visionary  pomp  of  stately  phantoms 

stepped. 

The    common    air    was    thick  with 

dreams,  — 

He  told  them  to  the  toiling  crowd  ; 
Such  music  as  the  woods  and  streams 

Sang  in  his  ear  he  sang  aloud ; 
In  still,  shut  bays,  on  windy  capes, 
He    heard    the    call    of   beckoning 

shapes, 
And,  as  the  gray  old  shadows  prompted 

him, 

To  homely  moulds  of  rhyme  he  shaped 
their  legends  grim. 

He  rested  now  his  weary  hands, 

And  lightly  moralized  and  laughed, 
As,  tracing  on  the  shifting  sands 
A  burlesque  of  his  paper-craft, 
He  saw  the  careless  waves  o'errun 
His  words,  as  time  before  had  done, 
Each   day's  tide-water  washing   clean 

away, 

Like  letters  from  the  sand,  the  work  of 
yesterday. 

And  one,  whose  Arab  face  was  tanned 

By  tropic  sun  and  boreal  frost, 
So  travelled  there  was  scarce  aland 

Or  people  left  him  to  exhaust, 
In  idling  mood  had  from  him  hurled 
The   poor  squeezed   orange   of   the 

world, 
And   in   the  tent-shade,  as  beneath  a 

palm, 

Smoked,  cross-legged  like  a  Turk,  in 
Oriental  calm. 

The  very  waves  that  washed  the  sand 

Below  him,  he  had  seen  before 
Whitening  the  Scandinavian  strand 

And  sultry  Mauritanian  shore. 
From  ice-rimmed  isles,  from  summer 

seas 

Palm-fringed,  they  bore  him  messa 
ges  ; 
He  heard  the  plaintive  Nubian  songs 

acrain, 

And    mule -bells    tinkling    down     the 
mountain-paths  of  Spain. 


THE    TENT  ON   THE  BEACH. 


365 


His  memory  round    the   ransacked 

earth 

On  Ariel's  girdle  slid  at  ease  ; 
And,  instant,  to  the  valley's  girth 
Of  mountains,  spice   isles  of  the 

seas, 
Faith   flowered    in    minster    stones, 

Art's  guess 

At  truth  and  beauty,  found  access  ; 
Yet  loved  the  while,  that  free  cosmopo 
lite, 

Old  friends,   old  ways,    and  kept  his 
boyhood's  dreams  in  sight. 

Untouched  as  yet  by  wealth  and  pride, 

That  virgin  innocence  of  beach  : 
No  shingly  monster,  hundred-eyed, 
Stared  its  gray  sand-birds   out   of 

reach ; 

Unhoused,  save  where,  at  intervals, 
The  white  tents  showed  their  canvas 

walls, 
Where  brief  sojourners,   in  the   cool, 

soft  air, 

Forgot  their  inland  heats,  hard  toil,  and 
year-long  care. 

Sometimes  along  the  wheel-deep  sand 
A  one-horse  wagon  slowly  crawled, 
Deep  laden  with  a  youthful  band, 
Whose  look  some  homestead  old 

recalled  ; 

Brother  perchance,  and  sisters  twain, 
And  one  whose  blue  eyes  told,  more 

plain 

Than  the  free  language  of  her  rosy  lip, 
Of  the  still  dearer  claim  of  love's  rela 
tionship. 

With  cheeks  of  russet-orchard  tint, 

The  light  laugh  of  their  native  rills, 
The  perfume  of  their  garden's  mint, 

The  breezy  freedom  of  the  hills, 
They  bore,  in  unrestrained  delight, 
The  motto  of  the  Garter's  knight, 
Careless  as  if  from  every  gazing  thing 
Hid  by  their  innocence,  as  Gyges  by 
his  ring. 

Theclanging  sea-fowl  came  and  went, 
The  hunter's  gun  in  the  marshes 
rang  ; 

At  nightfall  from  a  neighboring  tent 
A  flute- voiced  woman  sweetly  sang. 


Loose-haired,    barefooted,    hand-in- 

hand, 
Young  girls  went  tripping  down  the 

sand  ; 
And  youths  and  maidens,  sitting  in  the 

moon, 

Dreamed  o'er  the  old  fond  dream  from 
which  we  wake  too  soon. 

At  times  their  fishing-lines  they  plied, 

With  an  old  Triton  at  the  oar, 
Salt  as  the  sea-wind,  tough  and  dried 

As  a  lean  cusk  from  Labrador. 
Strange  tales  he  told  of  wreck  and 

storm,  — 

Had  seen  the  sea-snake's  awful  form, 
And  heard  the  ghosts  on  Haley's  Isle 

complain, 

Speak  him  off  shore,  and  beg  a  passage 
to  old  Spain  ! 

And  there,  on  breezy  morns,  they  saw 

The  fishing-schooners  outward  run, 

Their  low-bent  sails  in  tack  and  flaw 

Turned  white  or  dark  to  shade  and 

sun. 

Sometimes,  in  calms  of  closing  day, 
They   watched  the   spectral   mirage 

play, 
Saw  low,  far  islands  looming   tall  and 

nigh, 

And  ships,  with  upturned  keels,  sail  like 
a  sea  the  sky. 

Sometimes    a    cloud,    with   thunder 

black, 
Stooped  low  upon  the  darkening 

main, 
Piercing  the  waves  along  its  track 

With  the  slant  javelins  of  rain. 
And   when   west-wind  and  sunshine 

warm 

Chased  out  to  sea  its  wrecks  of  storm, 
They  saw  the  prismy  hues  in  thin  spray 

showers 

Where  the  green  buds  of  waves  burst 
into  white  froth  flowers. 

And  when  along  the  line  of  shore 
The  mists  crept  upward  chill  and 

damp, 
Stretched,    careless,    on  their  sandy 

floor 
Beneath  the  flaring  lantern  lamp, 


365 


THE    TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 


They  talked  of  all  things  old  and  new, 
Read,  slept,  and  dreamed  as  idlers 

do; 
And  in  the  unquestioned  freedom  of  the 

tent, 

Body  and  o'er-taxed  mind  to  healthful 
ease  unbent. 

Once,  when  the  sunset  splendors  died, 
And,  trampling  upthe  slopmgsand, 
In  lines  outreaching  far  and  wide, 
The  white-maned  billows  swept  to 

land, 

Dim  seen  across  the  gathering  shade, 
A  vast  and  ghostly  cavalcade, 
They  sat  around  their  lighted  kerosene, 
Hearing  the  deep  bass  roar  their  every 
pause  between. 

Then,  urged  thereto,  the  Editor 

Within  his  full  portfolio  dipped, 

Feigning  excuse  while  searching  for 

(With  secret  pride)  his  manuscript. 

H  ispale  face  flushed  from  eye  to  beard, 

With  nervous  cough   his   throat   he 

cleared, 

And,  in  a  voice  so  tremulous  it  betrayed 
The   anxious  fondness  of  an   author's 
heart,  he  read  : 


THE  WRECK  OF  RIVER- 
MOUTH. 

RIVERMOUTH  Rocks  are  fair  to  see, 

By  dawn  or  sunset  shone  across, 
When  the  ebb  of  the  sea  has  left  them 

free, 
To  dry  their  fringes   of  gold-green 

moss  : 

For  there  the  river  comes  winding  down 
From  salt   sea-meadows   and   uplands 

brown, 

And  waves  on  the  outer  rocks  afoam 
Shout  to  its  waters,  "  Welcome  home  !" 

And  fair  are  the  sunny  isles  in  view 
East  of  the  grisly  Head  of  the  Boar, 

And  Agamenticus  lifts  its  blue 

Disk  of  a  cloud  the  woodlands  o'er; 

And  southerly,  when  the  tide  is  down, 

'Twixt  white  sea-waves  and  sandrhills 
brown, 


The  beach-birds   dance  and  the  gray 

gulls  wheel 
Over  a  floor  of  burnished  steel. 

Once,  in  the  old  Colonial  days, 

Two  hundred  years  ago  and  more, 
A  boat  sailed  down  through  the  wind 
ing  ways 

Of  Hampton  River  to  that  low  shore, 
Full  of  a  goodly  company 
Sailing  out  on  the  summer  sea, 
Veering  to  catch  the  land-breeze  light, 
With  the  Boar  to  left  and  the  Rocks  to 
right. 

In  Hampton  meadows,  where  mowers 

laid 
Their  scythes  to  the  swaths  of  salted 

grass, 
"  Ah,   well-a-day  !   our    hay  must  be 

made  !  " 
A  young  man  sighed,  who  saw  them 

pass. 
Loud  laughed  his  fellows  to   see  him 

stand 

Whetting  his  scythe  with  a  listless  hand, 
Hearing  a  voice  in  a  far-off  song, 
Watching  a  white  hand  beckoning  long. 

"  Fie  on  the  witch  !  "   cried  a   merry 

girl? 
As   they    rounded    the    point    where 

Goody  Cole 

Sat  by  her  door  with  her  wheel  atwirl, 

A  bent  and  blear-eyed  poor  old  soul. 

"  Oho  !  "  she  muttered,  "  ye  're  brave 

to-day  ! 
But  I  hear  the  little  waves  laugh  and 

say, 
'  The  broth  will  be  cold  that  waits  at 

home  ; 
For  it's   one   to    go,   but   another  to 

come  !  '  " 

"  She 's   cursed,"    said   the    skipper; 

"  speak  her  fair  : 

I  'm  scary  always  to  see  her  shake 
Her  wicked  head,  with  its  wild  gray 

hair, 
And  nose  like  a  hawk,  and  eyes  like 

a  snake." 

But  merrily  still,  with  laugh  and  shout. 
From  Hampton  River  the  boat  sailed 

out,  . 


THE    TENT  ON  THE   BEACH. 


367 


Till   the   huts  and  the  flakes   on  Star 

seemed  nigh, 
And  they  lost  the  scent  of  the  pines  of 

Rye. 

They  dropped  their  lines  in  the  lazy 

tide, 
Drawing  up    haddock  and  mottled 

cod ; 
They  saw  not  the  Shadow  that  walked 

beside, 
They  heard  not  the  feet  with  silence 

shod. 
But   thicker  and  thicker  a  hot   mist 

grew, 
Shot   by   the   lightnings   through  and 

through  ; 
And  muffled  growls,  like  the  growl  of  a 

beast, 
Ran  along  the  sky  from  west  to  east. 

Then  the  skipper  looked  from  the  dark 
ening  sea 
Up  to  the  dimmed  and  wading  sun  ; 

But  he  spake  like  a  brave  man  cheerily, 

"  Yet  there  is  time  for  our  homeward 
run." 

Veering  and  tacking,    they  backward 
wore  ; 

And  just  as  a  breath  from  the  woods 
ashore 

Blew  out  to  whisper  of  danger  past, 

The  wrath  of  the  storm  came  down  at 
last! 

The  skinper  hauled  at  the  heavy  sail : 
"  Goo.  be  our  help  !  "  he  only  cried, 
As  the  roaring  gale,  like  the  stroke  of  a 

flail, 

Smote  the  boat  on  its  starboard  side. 
The  Shoalsmen  looked,  but  saw  alone 
Park  films  of  rain-cloud  slantwise 

blown, 
Wild   rocks  lit   up  by  the  lightning's 

glare, 
The   strife   and    torment    of   sea  and 

air. 

Goody  Cole  looked  out  from  her  door  : 
The  Isles  of  Shoals  were  drowned 
and  gone, 

Scarcely  she  saw  the  Head  of  the  Boar 
Toss  the  foam  from  tusks  of  stone. 


She  clasped  her  hands  with  a  grip  of 

pain, 

The  tear  on  her  cheek  was  not  of  rain  : 
"  They  are  lost,"  she  muttered,  "boat 

and  crew  ! 
Lord,    forgive    me  !    my    words    were 

true  !  " 

Suddenly  seaward  swept  the  squall  ; 
The  low  sun  smote  through  cloudy 

rack  ; 
The  Shoals  stood  clear  in  the  light,  and 

all 
The  trend  of  the  coast  lay  hard  and 

black. 

But  far  and  wide  as  eye  could  reach, 
No  life  was  seen  upon  wave  or  beach  ; 
The  boat  that  went  out  at  morning 

never 
Sailed     back    again    into     Hampton 

River. 

O  mower,  lean  on  thy  bended  snath, 
Look  from  the  meadows  green  and 

low  : 

The  wind  of  the  sea  is  a  waft  of  death, 
The  waves  are  singing  a  song  of  woe  ! 
By  silent  river,  by  moaning  sea, 
Long  and  vain  shall  thy  watching  be  : 
Never  again  shall  the  sweet  voice  call, 
Never  the  white  hand  rise  and  fall  ! 

O  Rivermputh  Rocks,  how  sad  a  sight 
Ye  saw  in  the  light  of  breaking  day  ! 

Dead  faces  looking  up  cold'and  white 
From  sand  and  sea-weed  where  they 
lay. 

The   mad   old   witch-wife   wailed  and 
wept, 

And  cursed   the  tide  as  it  backward 
crept  : 

"  Crawl  back,  crawl  back,  blue  water- 
snake  ! 

Leave   your  dead  for  the  hearts  that 
break  !  " 

Solemn  it  was  in  that  old  day 

In  Hampton  town  and  its  log-built 

church, 

Where  side  by  side  the  coffins  lay 
And  the  mourners  stood  in  aisle  and 
porch. 


368 


THE    TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 


In  the  singing-seats  young  eyes  were 

dim, 
The   voices   faltered    that    raised    the 

hymn, 

And  Father  Dalton,  grave  and  stern, 
Sobbed  through  his  prayer  and  wept  in 

turn. 

But  his  ancient  colleague  did  not  pray, 
Because  of  his  sin  at  fourscore  years  : 

He  stood  apart,  with  the  iron-gray 
Of  his  strong  brows  knitted  to  hide 
his  tears. 

And   a  wretched   woman,  holding  her 
breath 

In  the  awful  presence  of  sin  and  death, 

Cowered  and  shrank,  while  her  neigh 
bors  thronged 

To   look  on  the  dead  her  shame  had 
wronged. 

Apart  with  them,  like  them  forbid, 
Old    Goody    Cole    looked    drearily 

round, 

As,  two  by  two,  with  their  faces  hid, 
The  mourners  walked  to  the  burying- 

ground. 
She  let  the  staff  from  her  clasped  hands 

fall: 

"  Lord,  forgive  us  !  we  're  sinners  all !" 
And  the  voice  of  the  old  man  answered 

her: 
"Amen  !"  said  Father  Bachiler. 

So,  as  I  sat  upon  Appledore 

In   the   calm   of  a  closing   summer 

day, 
And    the    broken   lines   of   Hampton 

shore 

In  purple  mist  of  cloudland  lay, 
The   Rivermouth    Rocks    their    stc 

told; 

And  waves  aglow  with  sunset  gold, 
Rising  and  breaking  in  steady  chime, 
Beat  the  rhythm  and  kept  the  time. 

And   the   sunset    paled,    and  warmed 

once  more 

With  a  softer,  tenderer  after-glow  ; 
In  the  east  was  moon-rise,  with  boats 

off-shore 

And   sails   in    the   distance   drifting 
slow. 


story 


The  beacon  glimmered  from  Ports 
mouth  bar, 

The  White  Isle  kindled  its  great  red 
star ; 

And  life  and  death  in  my  old-time  lay 

Mingled  in  peace  like  the  night  and 
day! 


"Well!"    said   the    Man   of    Books, 

"  your  story 

Is  really  not  ill  told  in  verse. 
As  the  Celt  said  of  purgatory, 

One    might    go    farther     and     fare 

worse." 

The  Reader  smiled  ;  and  once  again 
With    steadier    voice    took    up    his 

strain. 

While  the  fair  singer  from  the  neigh 
boring  tent 

Drew  near,  and  at  his  side  a  graceful 
listener  bent. 


THE   GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE. 

WHERE  the  Great  Lake's  sunny  smiles 
Dimple  round  its  hundred  isles, 
And  the  mountain's  granite  ledge 
Cleaves  the  water  like  a  wedge, 
Ringed  about  with  smooth,  gray  stones, 
Rest  the  giant's  mighty  bones. 

Close  beside,  in  shade  and  gleam, 
Laughs  and  ripples  Melvin  stream  ; 
Melvin  water,  mountain-born, 
All  fair  flowers  its  banks  adorn  ; 
All  the  woodland's  voices  meet, 
Mingling  with  its  murmurs  sweet. 

Over  lowlands  forest-grown, 
Over  waters  island-strown, 
Over  silver-sanded  beach, 
Leaf-locked  bay  and  misty  reach, 
Melvin  stream  and  burial-heap, 
Watch  and  ward  the  mountains  keep. 

Who  that  Titan  cromlech  fills? 
Forest-kaiser,  lord  o'  the  hills  ? 
Knight  who  on  the  birchen  tree 
Carved  his  savage  heraldry  ? 
Priest  o'  the  pine-wood  temples  dim, 
Prophet,  sage,  or  wizard  grim? 


THE   GRA  VE  BY  THE  LAKE. 


369 


Rugged  type  of  primal  man, 
Grim  utilitarian, 

Loving  woods  for  hunt  and  prowl, 
Lake  and  hiil  for  fish  and  fowl, 
As  the  brown  bear  blind  and  dull 
To  the  grand  and  beautiful  : 

Not  for  him  the  lesson  drawn 
From  the  mountains  smit  with  dawn. 
Star-rise,  moon-rise,  flowers  of  May, 
Sunset's  purple  bloom  of  day,  — 
Took  his  life  no  hue  from  thence, 
Poor  amid  such  affluence  ? 

Haply  unto  hill  and  tree 
All  to'o  near  akin  was  he  : 
Unto  him  who  stands  afar 
Nature's  marvels  greatest  are  ; 
Who  the  mountain  purple  seeks 
Must  not  climb  the  higher  peaks. 

Yet  who  knows  in  winter  tramp, 
Or  the  midnight  of  the  camp, 
What  revealings  faint  and  far, 
Stealing  down  from  moon  and  star, 
Kindled  in  that  human  clod 
Thought  of  destiny  and  God? 

Stateliest  forest  patriarch, 
Grand  in  robes  of  skin  and  bark, 
What  sepulchral  mysteries, 
What  weird  funeral-rites,  were  his? 
What  sharp  wail,  what  drear  lament, 
Back  scared  wolf  and  eagle  sent? 

Now,  whate'er  he  may  have  been, 
Low  he  lies  as  other  men  ; 
On  his  mound  the  partridge  drums, 
There  the  noisy  blue-jay  comes  ; 
Rank  nor  name  nor  pomp  has  he 
In  the  grave's  democracy. 

Part  thy  blue  lips,  Northern  lake  ! 
Moss-grown  rocks,  your  silence  break  ! 
Tell  the  tale,  thou  ancient  tree  ! 
Thou,  too,  slide-worn  Ossipee  ! 
Speak,  and  tell  us  how  and  when 
Lived  and  died  this  king  of  men  ! 

Wordless  moans  the  ancient  pine ; 
Lake  and  mountain  give  no  sign  ; 
Vain  to  trace  this  ring  of  stones  ; 
Vain  the  search  of  crumbling  bones  : 
Deepest  of  all  mysteries, 
And  the  saddest,  silence  is. 
24 


Nameless,  noteless,  clay  with  clay 
Mingles  slowly  day  by  day  ; 
But  somewhere,  for  good  or  ill, 
That  dark  soul  is  living  still  ; 
Somewhere  yet  that  atom's  force 
Moves  the  light-poised  universe. 

Strange  that  on  his  burial-sod 
Harebells  bloom,  and  golden-rod, 
While  the  soul's  dark  horoscope 
Holds  no  starry  sign  of  hope  ! 
Is  the  Unseen  with  sight  at  odds? 
Nature's  pity  more  than  God's  ? 

Thus  I  mused  by  Melvin's  side, 
While  the  summer  eventide 
Made  the  woods  and  inland  sea 
And  the  mountains  mystery  ; 
And  the  hush  of  earth  and  air 
Seemed  the  pause  before  a  prayer,  — 

Prayer  for  him,  for  all  who  rest, 

Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  breast,  — 

Lapped  on  Christian  turf,  or  hid 

In  rock-cave  or  pyramid  : 

All  who  sleep,  as  all  who  live, 

Well  may  need  the  prayer,  "  Forgive  ! " 

Desert-smothered  caravan, 
Knee-deep  dust  that  once  was  man, 
Battle-trenches  ghastly  piled, 
Ocean-floors  with  white  bones  tiled, 
Crowded  tomb  and  mounded  sod, 
Dumbly  crave  that  prayer  to  God. 

O  the  generations  old 

Over  whom  no  church-bells  tolled, 

Christless,  lifting  up  blind  eyes 

To  the  silence  of  the  skies ! 

For  the  innumerable  dead 

Is  my  soul  disquieted. 

Where  be  now  these  silent  hosts? 
Where  the  camping-ground  of  ghosts? 
Where  the  spectral  conscripts  led 
To  the  white  tents  of  the  dead? 
What  strange  shore  or  chartless  sea 
Holds  the  awful  mystery  ? 

Then  the  warm  sky  stooped  to  make 
•Double  sunset  in  the  lake  ; 
While  above  I  saw  with  it, 
Range  on  range,  the  mountains  lit ; 
And  the  calm  and  splendor  stole 
Like  an  answer  to  my  soul. 


37° 

Hear'st  thou,  O  of  little  faith, 
What  to  thee  the  mountain  saith, 
What  is  whispered  by  the  trees?  — 
"  Cast  on  God  thy  care  fcr  these  ; 
Trust  him,  if  thy  sight  be  dim  : 
Doubt  for  them  is  doubt  of  Him. 

"  Blind  must  be  their  close-shut  eyes 
Where  like  night  the  sunshine  lies, 
Fiery-linked  the  self-forged  chain 
Binding  ever  sin  to  pain, 
Strong  their  prison-house  of  will, 
But  without  He  w^aiteth  still. 

"  Not  with  hatred's  undertow 
Doth  the  Love  Eternal  flow ; 
Every  chain  that  spirits  wear 
Crumbles  in  the  breath  of  prayer ; 
And  the  penitent's  desire 
Opens  every  gate  of  fire. 

"  Still  Thy  love,  O  Christ  arisen, 
Yearns  to  reach  these  souls  in  prison  ! 
Through  all  depths  of  sin  and  loss 
Drops  the  plummet  of  Thy  cross  ! 
Never  yet  abyss  was  found 
Deeper  than  that  cross  could  sound  ! ' 

Therefore  well  may  Nature  keep 
Equal  faith  with  all  who  sleep, 
Set  her  watch  of  hills  around 
Christian  grave  and  heathen  mound, 
And  to  cairn  and  kirkyard  send 
Summer's  flowery  dividend. 

Keep,  O  pleasant  Melvin  stream, 
Thy  sweet  laugh  in  shade  and  gleam  ! 
On' the  Indian's  grassy  tomb 
Swing,  O  flowers,  your  bells  of  bloom 
Deep  below,  as  high  above, 
Sweeps  the  circle  of  God's  love. 


THE    TENT  ON  THE   BEACH. 


He  paused  and  questioned  with  his 

eye 

The  hearers'  verdict  on  his  song. 
A  low  voice  asked  :  "  Is 't  well  to  pry 

Into  the  secrets  which  belong 
Only  to  God  ?  —  The  life  to  be 
Is  still  the  urtguessed  mystery  : 
Unsealed,  unpierced  the   cloudy  walls 

remain, 

We  beat  with   dream   and  wish    the 
soundless  doors  in  vain. 


"  But  faith  beyond  our  sight  may  go," 
He  said :  "Thegracious  Fatherhood 
Can  only  know  above,  below, 

Eternal  purposes  of  good. 
From  our  free  heritage  of  will,  _ 
The  bitter  springs  of  pain  and  ill 
Flow  only  in  all  worlds.    The  perfect  day 
Of  God  is  shadowle'ss,  and  love  is  love 
alway." 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  "  the  letter  kills ; 

That  on  our  arid  fields  of  strife 
And  heat  of  clashing  texts  distils 

The  clew  of  spirit  and  of  life. 
But,  searching  still  the  written  Word, 
I  fain  would  find,  Thus  saith  the  Lord, 
A  voucher  for  the  hope  I  also  feel 
That  sin  can   give   no  wound  beyond 
love's  power  to  heal." 

"  Pray,"  saidthe  Man  of  Books,  "give 

o'er 

A  theme  too  vast  for  time  and  place. 
Go  on,  Sir  Poet,  ride  once  more 

Your  hobby  at  his  old  free  pace. 
But  let  him  keep,  with  step  discreet, 
The  solid  earth  beneath  his  feet. 
In  the  great  mystery  which  around  us 

lies, 

The  wisest  is  a  fool,  the  fool  Heaven- 
helped  is  wise." 

The  Traveller  said :  "  If  songs  have 

creeds, 
Their  choice  of  them  let   singers 

make  ; 
But  Art  no  other  sanction  needs 

Than  beauty  for  its  own  fair  sake. 
It  grinds  not  in  the  mill  of  use, 
Nor  asks  for  leave,  nor  begs  excuse  ; 
It  makesthe  flexilelaws  it  deigns  to  own, 
And  gives  its  atmosphere  its  color  and 

its  tone. 
"Confess,   old  friend,   your  austere 

school 

Has  left  your  fancy  little  chance  ; 
You  square"  to  reason's  rigid  rule 

The  flowing  outlines  of  romance. 
With  conscience  keen  from  exercise, 
And  chronic  fear  of  compromise, 
You  check  the  free  play  of  your  rhymes, 

to  clap 

A  moral  underneath,  and  spring  it  like 
a  trap." 


THE    TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 


The  sweet  voice  answered:  "  Better  so 
Than  bolder  flights  that  know  no 

check  ; 
Better  to  use  the  bit,  than  throw 

The  reins  all  loose  on  fancy's  neck. 
The  liberal  range  of  Art  should  be 
The  breadth  of  Christian  liberty, 
Restrained  alonebychallenge  and  alarm 
Where  its  charmed  footsteps  tread  the 
border  land  of  harm. 

"  Beyond    the  poet's  sweet  dream 
,     *  lives 

The  eternal  epic  of  the  man. 
He  wisest  is  who  only  gives, 

True  to  himself,  the  best  he  can  ; 
Who,  drifting  in  the  winds  of  praise, 

The  inward  monitor  obeys  ; 
And,  with  the  boldness  that  confesses 

fear, 

Takes  in  the  crowded  sail,  and  lets  his 
conscience  steer. 

•'Thanks  for  the  fittingwordhe  speaks, 
Nor  less  for  doubtful  word  unspo 
ken  ; 

For  the  false  model  that  he  breaks, 
As  for  the   moulded  grace  unbro 
ken  ; 

For  what  is  missed  and  what  remains, 
For  losses  which  are  truest  gains, 
For  reverence  conscious  of  the  Eternal 

eye, 

And  truth  too  fair  to  need  the  garnish 
of  a  lie." 

Laughing,   the   Critic   bowed.      "  I 

yield 

The  point  without  another  word  ; 
Who  ever  yet  a  case  appealed 

Where  beauty's  judgment  had  been 

heard  ? 

And  you,  my  good  friend,  owe  to  me 
Your  warmest  thanks  for  such  a  plea, 
As  true  withal  as  sweet.    For  my  offence 
Of  cavil,  let  her  words  be  ample  recom 
pense." 

Across  the  sea  one  light-house  star, 
With  crimson  ray  that  came  and 

went, 
Revolving  on  its  tower  afar, 

Looked  through  the  doorway  of  the 
tent. 


While  outward,  over  sand-slopes  wet, 

The  lamp  flashed  down  its  yellow  jet 

On  the  long  wash  of  waves,  with  red 

and  green 

Tangles  of  weltering  weed  through  the 
white  foam-wreaths  seen. 

"  '  Sing  while  we  may,  —  another  day 
May  bring  enough  of  sorrow  ' ;  — 

thus 

Our  Traveller  in  his  own  sweet  lay, 
His  Crimean  camp-song,  hints  to 

us," 

The  lady  said.     "  So  let  it  be  ; 
Sing  us  a  song,"  exclaimed  all  three. 
She  smiled  :  "  I  can  but  marvel  at  your 

choice 

To  hear  our  poet's  words  through  my 
poor  borrowed  voice." 


Her  window  opens  to  the  bay, 
On  glistening  light  or  misty  gray, 
And  there  at  dawn  and  set  of  day 

In  prayer  she  kneels  : 
"Dear  Lord  !  "  she  saith,  "  to  many  a 

home 
From  wind  and  wave  the  wanderers 

come ; 
I  only  see  the  tossing  foam 

Of  stranger  keels. 

"  Blown  out  and  in  by  summer  gales, 
The  stately  ships,  with  crowded  sails^ 
And  sailors  leaning  o'er  their  rails, 

Before  me  glide  ; 

They  come,  they  go,  but  nevermore, 
Spice-laden  from  the  Indian  shore, 
I  see  his  swift-winged  Isidore 

The  waves  divide. 

"  O  Thou  !  with  whom  the  night  is  day 
And  one  the  near  and  far  away, 
Look  out  on  yon  gray  waste,  and  say 

Where  lingers  he. 

Alive,  perchance,  on  some  lone  beach 
Or  thirsty  isle  beyond  the  reach 
Of  man,  he  hears  the  mocking  speech 

Of  wind  and  sea. 

"O  dread  and  cruel  deep,  reveal 
The  secret  which  thy  waves  conceal, 
And,  ye  wild  sea-birds,  hither  wheel 
And  tell  your  tale. 


372 


THE    TENT  ON   THE   BEACH. 


Let  winds  that  tossed  his  raven  hair 
A  message  from  my  lost  one  bear,  — 
Some  thought  of  me,  a  last  fond  prayer 
Or  dying  wail  ! 

"  Come,  with  your  dreariest  truth  shut 

out 

The  fears  that  haunt  me  round  about ; 
O  God  !  I  cannot  bear  this  doubt 

That  stifles  breath. 
The  worst  is  better  than  the  dread  ; 
Give  me  but  leave  to  mourn  my  dead 
Asleep  in  trust  and  hope,  instead 

Of  life  in  death!" 

It  might  have  been  the  evening  breeze 
That  whispered  in  the  garden  trees, 
It  might  have  been  the  sound  of  seas 

That  rose  and  fell  ; 
But,  with  her  heart,  if  not  her  ear, 
The  old  loved  voice  she  seemed  to  hear : 
"  I  wait  to  meet  thee  :  be  of  cheer 

For  all  is  well !  " 


The  sweet  voice  into  silence  went, 
A  silence  which  was  almost  pain 
As  through  it  rolled  the  long  lament, 
The  cadence  of  the  mournful  main. 
Glancing  his  written  pages  o'er, 
The  Reader  tried  his  part  once  more  ; 
Leaving  the   land  of  hackmatack  and 

«        pine 

For  Tuscan  valleys  glad  with  olive  and 
with  vine. 


THE  BROTHER  OF  MERCY. 

PIERO  LUCA,  known  of  all  the  town 
As  the  gray  porter  by  the  Pitti  wall 
Where  the  noon  shadows  of  the  gardens 

fall. 

Sick  and  in  dolor,  waited  to  lay  down 
His   last    sad  burden,    and   beside  his 

mat 
The  barefoot  monk  of  La  Certosa  sat. 

Unseen,  in   square   and   blossoming 

garden  drifted, 
Soft  sunset  lights  through  green  Val 

d'  Arno  sifted  ; 
Unheard,  below  the  living  shuttles 

shifted 


Backward  and  forth,  and  wove,  in  love 

or  strife, 
In   mirth  or  pain,  the  mottled  web  of 

life: 
But  when   at  last  came  upward  from 

the  street 
Tinkle  of  bell  and  tread  of  measured 

feet, 
The  sick  man  started,  strove  to  rise  in 

vain, 
Sinking  back  heavily  with  a  moan  of 

pain. 
And   the   monk   said,  "  'T  is  but  the 

Brotherhood 

Of  Mercy  going  on  some  errand  good  : 
Their  black  masks  by  the  palace-wall  .1 

see." 

Piero  answered  faintly,  "  Woe  is  me  ! 
This  day  for  the  first  time  in  forty  years 
In  vain  the  bell  hath  sounded  in  my 

ears, 
Calling   me   with   my  brethren  of  the 

mask, 
Beggar  and  prince  alike,  to  some  new 

task 

Of  love  or  pity,  — haply  from  the  street 
To  bear  a  wretch  plague-stricken,  or, 

with  feet 

Hushed  to  the  quickened  ear  and  fever 
ish  brain, 

To  tread  the  crowded  lazaretto's  floors, 
Down  the  long  twilight  of  the  corridors, 
Midst  tossing  arms  and  faces  full  of 

pain. 

I   loved  the  work  :  it  was  its  own  re 
ward. 

I  never  counted  on  it  to  offset 
My   sins,    which   are   many,    or  make 

less  my  debt 
To   the  free  grace   and   mercy   of  our 

Lord  ; 
But  somehow,  father,   it  has  come  to 

be 

In  these  long  years  so  much  a  part  of  me, 
I  should  not  know  myself,  if  lacking  it, 
But  with  the  work  the  worker  too  would 

die, 
And  in  my  place  some  other  self  would 

sit 

Joyful  or  sad,  — what  matters,  if  not  I? 
And  now  all 's  over.  Woe  is  me  !  "  — 

"  My  son," 
The  monk'said  soothingly,  "thy  work 

is  done ; 


THE   CHANGELING. 


373 


And  no  more  as  a  servant,  but  the  guest 
Of  God  thou  enterest  thy  eternal  rest. 
No  toil,  no  tears,  no  sorrow  for  the  lost 
Shall    mar    thy    perfect  bliss.      Thou 

shalt  sit  down 
Clad  in  white  robes,  and  wear  a  golden 

crown 

Forever  and  forever."  —  Piero  tossed 
On  his  sick-pillow  :  "  Miserable  me  ! 
I  am  too  poor  for  such  grand  company  ; 
The  crown  would  be  too  heavy  for  this 

gray 

Old  head  ;  and  God  forgive  me  if  I  say 
It  would  be  hard  to  sit  there  night  and 

day, 
Like  an  image  in  the  Tribune,  doing 

naught 
With  these  hard  hands,  that  all  my  life 

have  wrought, 

Not  for  bread  only,  but  for  pity's  sake. 
I  'in  dull  at  prayers  :  I  could  not  keep 

awake, 
Counting  my  beads.      Mine  's  but  a 

crazy  head, 
Scarce  worth  the  saving,  if  all  else  be 

dead. 
And  if  one  goes  to  heaven  without  a 

heart, 
God  knows  he  leaves  behind  his  better 

part. 

I  love  my  fellow-men  ;  the  worst  I  know 
I  would  do  good  to.     Will  death  change 

me  so 

That  I  shall  sit  among  the  lazy  saints, 
Turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the  sore  complaints 
Of  souls  that  suffer  ?  Why,  I  never  yet 
Left  a  poor  dog  in  the  strada  hard  beset, 
Or  ass  o'erladen  !  Must  I  rate  man  less 
Than  dog  or  ass,  in  holy  selfishness? 
Methinks  (Lord,  pardon,  if  the  thought 

be  sin  !) 

The  world  of  pain  were  better,  if  therein 
One's  heart  might  still  be  human,  and 

desires 

Of  natural  pity  drop  upon  its  fires 
Some  cooling  tears." 

Thereat  the  pale  monk  crossed 
His  brow,  and,  muttering,  "  Madman  ! 

thou  art  lost  !" 

Took  up  his  pyx  and  fled  ;  and,  left  alone, 
The   sick  man  closed  his  eyes  with  a 

great  groan 
That  sank  into  a  prayer,  "  Thy  will  be 

done  !  " 


Then  was  he  made  aware,  by  soul  or 

ear, 
Of  somewhat  pure  and  holy  bending 

o'er  him, 
And  of  a  voice  like  that  of  her  who  bore 

him, 
Tender     and     most     compassionate : 

"  Never  fear  ! 
For  heaven  is  love,  as  God  himself  is 

love  ; 
Thy  work   below   shall  be   thy  work 

above." 
And  when  he  looked,  lo  !  in  the  stern 

monk's  place 
He  saw  the  shining  of  an  angel's  face  ! 


The  Traveller  broke  the  pause.    "  I  've 

seen 
The   Brothers  down  the  long  street 

steal, 

Black,  silent,  masked,  the  crowd  be 
tween, 

And  felt  to  doff  my  hat  and  kneel 
With  heart,  if  not  with  knee,  in  prayer, 
For  blessings  on  their  pious  care." 
The     Reader     wiped     his      glasses: 

"  Friends  of  mine, 

We'll  try  our  home-brewed  next,  in 
stead  of  foreign  wine." 


THE  CHANGELING. 

FOR  the  fairest  maid  in  Hampton 
They  needed  not  to  search, 

Who  saw  young  Anna  Favor 
Come  walking  into  church,  — 

Or  bringing  from  the  meadows, 

At  set  of  harvest-day, 
The  frolic  of  the  blackbirds, 

The  sweetness  of  the  hay. 

Now  the  weariest  of  all  mothers, 
The  saddest  two-years  bride, 

She  scowls  in  the  face  of  her  husband, 
And  spurns  her  child  aside. 

"  Rake  out  the  red  coals,  goodman,  — 
For  there  the  child  shall  lie, 

Till  the  black  witch  comes  to  fetch  her, 
And  both  up  chimney  fly. 


374 


THE    TENT  ON  THE   BEACH. 


"  It 's  never  my  own  little  daughter, 
It 's  never  my  own,"  she  said  ; 

"The  witches  have  stolen  my  Anna, 
And  left  me  an  imp  instead. 

"  O,  fair  and  sweet  was  my  baby, 
Blue  eyes,  and  hair  of  gold  ; 

But  this  is  ugly  and  wrinkled, 
Cross,  and  cunning,  and  old. 

"  I  hate  the  touch  of  her  fingers, 

I  hate  the  feel  of  her  skin  ; 
It's  not  the  milk  from  my  bosom, 

But  my  blood,  that  she  sucks  in. 

"  My  face  grows  sharp  with  the  torment; 

Look  !  my  arms  are  skin  and  bone  !  — 
Rake  open  the  red  coals,  goodman, 

And  the  witch  shall  have  her  own. 

"  She  '11  come  when  she  hears  it  crying, 
In  the  shape  of  an  owl  or  bat, 

And  she  '11  bring  us  our  darling  Anna 
In  place  of  her  screeching  brat." 

Then  the  goodman,  Ezra  Dalton, 
Laid  his  hand  upon  her  head  : 

"Thy  sorrow  is  great,  O  woman  ! 
I  sorrow  with  thee,"  he  said. 

"  The  paths  to  trouble  are  many, 
And  never  but  one  sure  way 

Leads  out  to  the  light  beyond  it : 
My  poor  wife,  let  us  pray." 

Then  he  said  to  the  great  All-Father, 
"  Thy  daughter  is  weak  and  blind  ; 

Let  her  sight  come  back,  and  clothe  her 
Once  more  in  her  right  mind. 

"  Lead  her  out  of  this  evil  shadow, 

Out  of  these  fancies  wild  ; 
Let  the  holy  love  of  the  mother 

Turn  again  to  her  child. 

"  Make  her  lips  like  the  lips  of  Mary 

Kissing  her  blessed  Son  ; 
Let  her  hands,  like  the  hands  of  Jesus, 

Rest  on  her  little  one. 

"  Comfort  the  soul  of  thy  handmaid, 

Open  her  prison-door, 
And  thine  shall  be  all  the  glory 

And  praise  forevermore. " 


Then  into  the  face  of  its  mother 
The  baby  looked  up  and  smiled  ; 

And  the  cloud  of  her  soul  was  lifted, 
And  she  knew  her  little  child. 

A  beam  of  the  slant  west  sunshine 
Made  the  wan  face  almost  fair, 

Lit  the  blue  eyes'  patient  wonder, 
And  the  rings  of  pale  gold  hair. 

She  kissed  it  on  lip  and  forehead, 
She  kissed  it  on  cheek  and  chin, 

And  she  bared  her  snow-white  bosom 
To  the  lips  so  pale  and  thin. 

O,  fair  on  her  bridal  morning 

Was  the    maid    who    blushed    an4 
smiled, 

But  fairer  to  Ezra  Dalton 

Looked  the  mother  of  his  child. 

With  more  than  a  lover's  fondness 
He  stooped  to  her  worn  young  face, 

And  the  nursing  child  and  the  mother 
He  folded  in  one  embrace. 

"  Blessed  be  God  !  "  he  murmured. 

"  Blessed  be  God  !  "  she  said  ; 
"  For  I  see,  who  once  was  blinded,  — • 

I  live,  who  once  was  dead. 

"  Now  mount  and  ride,  my  goodman, 
As  thou  lovest  thy  own  soul  ! 

Woe  's  me,  if  my  wicked  fancies 
Be  the  death  of  Goody  Cole  !  " 

His  horse  he  saddled  and  bridled, 
And  into  the  night  rode  he,  — 

Now  through  the  great  black  woodlan1*, 
Now  by  the  white-beached  sea. 

He  rode  through  the  silent  clearings, 

He  came  to  the  ferry  wide, 
And  thrice  he  called  to  the  boatmau 

Asleep  on  the  other  side. 

He  set  his  horse  to  the  river, 
He  swam  to  Newbury  town, 

And  he  called  up  Justice  Sewall 
In  his  nightcap  and  his  gown. 

And  the  grave  and  worshipful  justice. 

(Upon  whose  soul  be  peace  !) 
Set  his  name  to  the  jailer's  warrant 

For  Goodwife  Cole's  release. 


THE   MAIDS   OF  ATTITASH. 


375 


Then  through  the  night  the  hoof-beats 

Went  sounding  like  a  nail ; 
And  Goody  Cole  at  cockcrow 

Came  forth  from  Ipswich  jail. 


"  Here  is  a  rhyme  :  —  I  hardly  dare 

To  venture  on  its  theme  worn  out ; 

What  seems  so  sweet  by  Doon  and 

Ayr 

Sounds  simply  silly  hereabout ; 
And  pipes  by  lips  Arcadian  blown 
Are  only  tin  horns  at  our  own. 
Yet  still  the   muse  of  pastoral   walks 

with  us, 

While   Hosea  Biglow  sings,  our  new 
Theocritus." 


THE   MAIDS   OF  ATTITASH. 

IN  sky  and  wave  the  white  clouds  swam, 
And  the  blue  hills  of  Nottingham 
Through  gaps  of  leafy  green 
Across  the  lake  were  seen,  — 

When,  in  the  shadow  of  the  ash 
That  dreams  its  dream  in  Attitash, 

In  the  warm  summer  weather, 

Two  maidens  sat  together. 

They  sat  and  watched  in  idle  mood 
The  gleam    and   shade    of  lake  and 
wood,  — 

The  beach  the  keen  light  smote, 

The  white  sail  of  a  boat,  — 

Swan  flocks  of  lilies  shoreward  lying, 

In  sweetness,  not  in  music,  dying,  — 

Hardback,  and  virgin's-bower, 

And  white-spiked  clethra-flower. 

With  careless  ears  they  heard  the  plash 
And  breezy  wash  of  Attitash, 

The  wood-bird's  plaintive  cry, 
The  locust's  sharp  reply. 

And  teased  the  while,  with  playful  hand, 
The  shaggy  dog  of  Newfoundland, 

Whose  uncouth  frolic  spilled 

Their  baskets  berry-filled. 


Then  one,  the  beauty  of  whose  eyes 
Was  evermore  a  great  surprise, 
Tossed  back  her  queenly  head, 
And,  lightly  laughing,  said,  — 

"  No  bridegroom's  hand  be  mine   to 

hold 
That  is  not  lined  with  yellow  gold  ; 

I  tread  no  cottage-floor ; 

I  own  no  lover  poor. 

"  My  love  must  come  on  silken  wings, 
With  bridal  lights  of  diamond  rings,  — 

Not  foul  with  kitchen  smirch, 

With  tallow-dip  for  torch." 

The  other,  on  whose  modest  head 
Was  lesser  dower  of  beauty  shed, 
With  look  for  home-hearths  meet, 
And  voice  exceeding  sweet, 

Answered,  —  "  We  will  not  rivals  be  ; 

Take  thou  the  gold,  leave  love  to  me  ; 
Mine  be  the  cottage  small, 
And  thine  the  rich  man's  hall. 

"  I  know,  indeed,  that  wealth  is  good  ; 

But  lowly  roof  and  simple  food, 
With  love  that  hath  no  doubt, 
Are  more  than  gold  without." 

Hard  by  a  farmer  hale  and  young 
His  cradle  in  the  rye-field  swung, 
Tracking  the  yellow  plain 
With  windrows  of  ripe  grain. 

And  still,  whene'er  he  paused  to  whet 
His  scythe,  the  sidelong  glance  he  met 
Of  large  dark  eyes,  where  strove 
False  pride  and  secret  love. 

Be  strong,  young  mower  of  the  grain; 
That  love  shall  overmatch  disdain, 

Its  instincts  soon  or  late 

The  heart  shall  vindicate. 

In  blouse  of  gray,  with  fishing-rod, 
Half  screened  by  leaves,  a  stranger  trod 
The  margin  of  the  pond, 
Watching  the  group  beyond. 

The  supreme  hours  unnoted  come  ;  I 
Unfelt  the  turning  tides  of  doom  ;      { 
And  so  the  maids  lauehed  on, 
Nor  dreamed  what  Fate  had  done,  — 


376 


THE    TENT  ON  THE   BEACH. 


Nor  knew  the  step  was  Destiny's 
That  rustled  in  the  birchen  trees, 

As,  with  their  lives  forecast, 

Fisher  and  mower  passed. 

Erelong  by  lake  and  rivulet  side 
The  summer  roses  paled  and  died, 

And  Autumn's  fingers  shed 

The  maple's  leaves  of  red. 

Through  the  long  gold-hazed  afternoon, 
Alone,  but  for  the  diving  loon, 
The  partridge  in  the  brake, 
The  black  duck  on  the  lake, 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  ash 
Sat  man  and  maid  by  Attitash  ; 
And  earth  and  air  made  room 
For  human  hearts  to  bloom. 

Soft  spread  the  carpets  of  the  sod, 
And  scarlet-oak  and  golden-rod 

With  blushes  and  with  smiles 

Lit  up  the  forest  aisles. 

The  mellow  light  the  lake  aslant, 
The  pebbled  margin's  ripple-chant 
Attempered  and  low-toned, 
The  tender  mystery  owned. 

And   through  the    dream    the    lovers 

dreamed 
Sweet  sounds  stole  in  and  soft  lights 

streamed ; 

The  sunshine  seemed  to  bless, 
The  air  was  a  caress. 

Not  she  who  lightly  laughed  is  there, 
With  scornful  toss  of  midnight  hair, 
Her  dark,  disdainful  eyes, 
And  proud  lip  worldly-wise. 

Her  haughty  vow  is  still  unsaid, 

But  all  she  dreamed  and  coveted 

Wears,  half  to  her  surprise, 

The  youthful  farmer's  guise  ! 

With  more  than  all  her  old-time  pride 
She  walks  the  rye-field  at  his  side, 

Careless  of  cot  or  hall, 

Since  love  transfigures  all. 


Rich    beyond    dreams,    the     vantage- 
ground 
Of  life  is  gained ;  her  hands  have  found 

The  talisman  of  old 

That  changes  all  to  gold. 

While  she  who  could  for  love  dispense 
With  all  its  glittering  accidents, 
And  trust  her  heart  alone, 
Finds  love  and  gold  her  own. 

What  wealth  can  buy  or  art  can  build 
Awaits  her ;  but  her  cup  is  filled 

Even  now  unto  the  brim  ; 

Her  world  is  love  and  him  ! 


The  while  he  heard,  the  Book-man 

drew 

A  length  of  make-believing  face, 
With   smothered   mischief  laughing 

through : 
"  Why,  you  shall  sit  in  Ramsay's 

place, 

And,  with  his  Gentle  Shepherd,  keep 
On  Yankee  hills  immortal  sheep, 
While  love-lorn  swains  and  maids  the 

seas  beyond 

Hold  dreamy  tryst  around  your  huck 
leberry-pond." 

The  Traveller  laughed  ;  "  Sir  Gala 
had 

Singing  of  love  the.Trotiyere's  lay  ! 

How  should  he  know  the  blindfold  lad 

From  one  of  Vulcan's  forge-boys?" 

—  "  Nay, 

He  better  sees  who  stands  outside 

Than  they  who  in  procession  ride," 

The   Reader    answered  :    "  selectmen 

and  squire 

Miss,  while  they  make,  the  show  that 
wayside  folks  admire. 

"  Here  is  a  wild  tale  of  the  North, 

Our  travelled  friend  will  own  as  one 
Fit  for  a  Norland  Christinas  hearth 
And  lips  of  Christian  Andersen. 
They  tell  it  in  the  valleys  green 
Of  the  fair  island  he  has  seen, 
Low  lying   off   the   pleasant   Swedish 

shore, 

Washed  by  the  Baltic  Sea,  and  watched 
by  Elsinore." 


KA  L L  UNDBOR  G   CH  UR  CH. 


377 


KALLUNDBORG  CHURCH. 

"  Tie  stille,  barn  min  I 
Imorgen  konnner  Fin, 
Fa'er  din, 

Oggi'er  dig  Esbern  Snares  bine  og  hjerte 
at  lege  med!  " 

Zealand  Rhyme. 

"  BUILD  at  Kallundborg  by  the  sea 
A  church  as  stately  as  church  may  be, 
And  there  shall  thou  wed  my  daughter 

fair," 
Said  the   Lord  of  Nesvek  to   Esbern 

Snare. 

And  the  Baron  laughed.     But  Esbern 

said, 
"Though  I  lose  my  soul,  I  will  Helva 

wed  ! " 

And  off  lie  strode,  in  his  pride  of  will, 
To  the  Troll  who  dwelt  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

"  Build,  O  Troll,  a  church  for  me 

At  Kallundborg  by  the  mighty  sea  ; 
Build  it  stately,  and  build  it  fair, 
Build  it  quickly,"  said  Esbern  Snare. 

But  the  sly  Dwarf  said,  "  No  work  is 

wrought 
By  Trolls  of  the   Hills,    O   man,   for 

naught. 
What  wilt  thou  give  for  thy  church  so 

fair? " 
"  Set  thy  own  price,"  quoth   Esbern 

Snare. 

"When  Kallundborg  church  isbuilcled 

well, 

Thou  must  the  name  of  its  builder  tell, 
Or  thy  heart  and  thy  eyes  must  be  my 

boon." 
"Build,"  said  Esbern,  "and  build  it 

soon." 

By  night  and  by  day  the  Troll  wrought 

on  ; 
He   hewed  the   timbers,  he  piled  the 

stone  ; 

But  day  by  day,  as  the  walls  rose  fair, 
Darker  and  sadder  grew  Esbern  Snare. 

He  listened  by  night,  he  watched  by  day, 
He  sought  and  thought,  but  he  dared 
not  pray  ; 


In  vain  he  called  on  the  Elle-maids  shy, 
And   the  Neck  and  the  Nis  gave  no 
reply. 

Of  his  evil  bargain  far  and  wide 
A  rumor  ran  through  the  country-side; 
And  Helva  of  Nesvek,  young  and  fair, 
Prayed  for  the  soul  of  Esbern  Snare. 

And  now  the  church  was  wellnigh  done  ; 
One  pillar  it  lacked,  and  one  alone  ; 
And  the  grim  Troll  muttered,   "  Fool 

thou  art  ! 
To-morrow  gives    me   thy  eyes    and 

heart !  " 

By  Kallundborg  in  black  despair, 
Through   wood   and   meadow,  walked 

Esbern  Snare, 
Till,  worn  and  weary,  the  strong  man 

sank 
Under  the  birches  on  Ulshoi  bank. 

At  his  last  day's  work  he  heard  the  Troll 

Hammer  and  delve  in  the  quarry's  hole ; 

Before  him  the  church  stood  large  and 
fair  : 

"  I  have  builded  my  tomb,"  said  Es 
bern  Snare. 

And  he  closed  his  eyes  the  sight  to  hide, 
When  he  heard  a  light  step  at  his  side  : 
"  O  Esbern  Snare ! "  a  sweet  voice  said, 
"  Would  I  might  die  now  in  thy  stead  ! " 

With  a  grasp  by  love  and  by  fear  made 

strong, 

He  held  her  fast,  and  he  held  her  long  ; 
With  the  beating  heart  of  a  bird  afeard, 
She  hid  her  face  in  his  flame-red  beard. 

"  O  love  !  "  he  cried,  "  let  me  look  to 
day 

In  thine'eyes  ere  mine  are  plucked  away ; 

Let  me  hold  thee  close,  let  me  feel  thy 
heart 

Ere  mine  by  the  Troll  is  torn  apart ! 

"  I  sinned,  O  Helva,  for  love  of  thee  ! 
Pray  that  the  Lord  Christ  pardon  me  !  " 
But  fast  as  she  prayed,  and  faster  still, 
Hammered  the  Troll 'in  Ulshoi  hill. 


373 


THE    TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 


He  knew,  as  he  wrought,  that  a  loving 

heart 

Was  somehow  baffling  his  evil  art ; 
For  more  than  spell  of  Elf  or  Troll 
Is  a  maiden's  prayer  for  her  lover's  soul. 

And  Esbern   listened,  and  caught  the 

sound 

Of  a  Troll-wife  singing  underground : 
"To-morrow  comes  Fine,  father  thine  : 
Lie  still  and  hush  thee,  baby  mine  ! 

"  Lie  still,  my  darling  !  next  sunrise 
Thou  'It  play  with  Esbern  Snare's 

heart  and  eyes  !  " 
"  Ho  !  ho  !  "  quoth  Esbern,  "  is  that 

your  game  ? 
Thanks  to  the  Troll-wife,  I  know  his 

name  !  " 

The  Troll  lie  heard  him,  and  hurried  on 

To  Kallundborg  church  with  the  lack 
ing-stone. 

"  Too  late,  Gaffer  Fine  !  "  cried  Esbern 
Snare  ; 

And  Troll  and  pillar  vanished  in  air  ! 

That   night   the  harvesters  heard   the 

sound 

Of  a  woman  sobbing  underground, 
And  the  voice  of  the  Hill-Troll  loud 

with  blame 
Of  the   careless   singer  who   told  his 

name. 

Of  the  Troll  of  the  Church  they  sing 

the  rune 
By  the  Northern  Sea  in  the   harvest 

moon  ; 
And  the  fishers  of  Zealand  hear  him 

still 
Scolding  his  wife  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

And  seaward  over  its  groves  of  birch 
Still  looks  the  tower  of  Kallunciborg 

church, 

Where,  first  at  its  altar,  a  wedded  pair, 
Stood   Helva  of  Nesvek  and  Esbern 

Snare  ! 


"What,"  asked  the  Traveller,  "would 

our  sires, 
The  old  Norse  story-tellers,  say 


Of  sun-graved  pictures,  ocean  wires, 
And  smoking  steamboats  of  to-day  ? 
And  this,  O  lady,  by  your  leave, 
Recalls  your  song  of  yester  eve  : 
Pray,  let  us  have  that  Cable-hymn  once 

more." 

"  Hear,  hear  !  "  the  Book-man  cried, 
"  the  lady  has  the  floor. 

"  These  noisy  waves  below  perhaps 
To  such  a  strain   will  lend   their 

ear, 
With  softer  voice  and  lighter  lapse 

Come  stealing  up  the  sands  to  hear, 
And  what  they  once  refused  to  do 
For  old  King  Knut  accord  to  you. 
Nay,  even  the  fishes  shall  your  listen 
ers  be, 

As  once,  the  legend  runs,  they  heard 
St.  Anthony." 


O  lonely  bay  of  Trinity, 

O  dreary  shores,  give  ear  ! 
Lean  down  unto  the  white-lipped  sea 

The  voice  of  God  to  hear ! 

From  world  to  world  his  couriers  fly, 
Thought-winged  and  shod  with  fire  ; 

The  angel  of  His  stormy  sky 
Rides  down  the  sunken  wire. 

What  saith  the  herald  of  the  Lord? 

"  The  world's  long  strife  is  done  ; 
Close  wedded  by  that  mystic  cord, 

Its  continents  are  one. 

"And  one  in  heart,  as  one  in  blood, 

Shall  all  her  peoples  be  ; 
The  hands  of  human  brotherhood 

Are  clasped  beneath  the  sea. 

"  Through    Orient   seas,   o'er    Afric's 
plain 

And  Asian  mountains  borne, 
The  vigor  of  the  Northern  brain 

Shall  nerve  the  world  outworn. 

"From  clime  to  clime,  from  shore  to 
shore, 

Shall  thrill  the  magic  thread  ; 
The  new  Prometheus  steals  once  more 

The  fire  that  wakes  the  dead." 


THE   DEAD   SHIP  OF  IIARPSWELL. 


379 


Throb  on,  strong  pulse  of  thunder  !  beat 
From  answering  beach  to  beach; 

Fuse  nations  in  thy  kindly  heat, 
And  melt  the  chains  of  each  ! 

Wild  terror  of  the  sky  above, 
Glide  tamed  and  dumb  below  ! 

Bear  gently,  Ocean's  carrier-dove, 
Thy  errands  to  and  fro. 

Weave  on,  swift  shuttle  of  the  Lord, 

Beneath  the  deep  so  far, 
The  bridal  robe  of  earth's  accord, 

The  funeral  shroud  of  war  ! 

For  lo  !  the  fall  of  Ocean's  wall 
Space  mocked  and  time  outrun  ; 

And  round  the  world  the  thought  of  all 
Is  as  the  thought  of  one  ! 

The  poles  unite,  the  zones  agree, 
The  tongues  of  striving  cease; 

As  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee 

The  Christ  is  whispering,  Peace  ! 


"  Glad  prophecy  !  to  this  at  last," 
The  Reader  said,  "  shall  all  things 

come. 
Forgotten  be  the  bugle's  blast, 

And  battle-music  of  the  drum. 
A  little  while  the  world  may  run 
Its  old  mad  way,  with  needle-gun 
And  iron-clad,  but  truth,  at  last,  shall 

reign  : 

The   cradle-song  of  Christ  was  never 
sung  in  vain  !  " 

Shiftinghisscatteredpapers,  " Here," 
He  said,  as  died  the  faint  applause, 
"  Is  something  that  I  found  last  year 
Down  on  the  island  known  as  Orr's. 
I  had  it  from  a  fair-haired  girl 
Who,  oddly,  bore  the  name  of  Pearl, 
(As  if  by  some  droll  freak  of  circum 
stance.) 

Classic,    or    wellnigh    ?o,    in    Harriet 
Stowe's  romance." 


THE  DEAD   SHIP  OF  HARPS- 
WELL. 

WHAT  flecks  the  outer  gray  beyond 
The  sundown's  golden  trail  1 


The  white  f.ash  of  a  sea-bird's  wing, 

Or  gleam  of  slanting  sail  ? 
Let  young  eyes  watch  from  Neck  and 
Point, 

And  sea-worn  elders  pray,  — 
The  ghost  of  what  was  once  a  ship 

Is  sailing  up  the  bay  ! 

From  gray  sea-fog,  from  icy  drift, 

From  peril  and  from  pain, 
The  home-bound  fisher  greets  thy  lights, 

O  hundred- harbored  Maine  ! 
But  many  a  keel  shall  seaward  turn, 

And  many  a  sail  outstand, 
When,  tall  "and  white,  the  Dead  Ship 
looms 

Against  the  dusk  of  land. 

She   rounds  the    headland's    bristling 
pines  ; 

She  threads  the  isle-set  bay  ; 
No  spur  of  breeze  can  speed  her  on, 

Nor  ebb  of  tide  delay. 
Old  men  still  walk  the  Isle  of  Orr 

Who  tell  her  date  and  name, 
Old  shipwrights  sit  in  Freeport  yards 

Who  hewed  her  oaken  frame. 

What  weary  doom  of  baffled  quest, 

Thou  sad  sea-ghost,  is  thine? 
What  makes  thee  in  the  haunts  of  home 

A  wonder  and  a  sign  ? 
No  foot  is  on  thy  silent  deck, 

Upon  thy  helm  no  hand  ; 
No  ripple  hath  the  soundless  wrind 

That  smites  thee  from  the  land  ! 

For  never  comes  the  ship  to  port, 

Howe'er  the  breeze  may  be  ; 
Just  when  she  nears  the  waiting  shore 

She  drifts  again  to  sea. 
No  tack  of  sail,  nor  turn  of  helm, 

Nor  sheer  of  veering  side  ; 
Stern-fore  she  drives  to  sea  and  night, 

Against  the  wind  and  tide. 

In  vain  o'er  Harpswell  Neck  the  star 

Of  evening  guides  her  in  ; 
In  vain  for  her  the  lamps  are  lit 

Within  thy  tower,  Seguin  ! 
In  vain  the  harbor-boat  shall  hail, 

In  vain  the  pilot  call  ; 
No  hand  shall  reef  her  spectral  sail, 

Or  let  her  anchor  fall. 


THE    TENT  ON  THE   BEACH. 


Shake,    brown   old  wives,  with  dreary 

j°y> 

Your  gray-head  hinls  of  ill  ; 
And,  over  sick-beds  whispering  low, 

Your  prophecies  fulfil. 
Some  home  amid  yon  birchen  trees 

Shall  drape  its  door  with  woe  ; 
And  slowly  where  the  Dead  Ship  sails, 

The  burial  boat  shall  row  ! 

From    Wolf    Neck   and    from    Flying 
Point, 

From  island  and  from  main, 
From  sheltered  cove  and  tided  creek, 

Shall  glide  the  funeral  train. 
The  dead-boat  with  the  bearers  four, 

The  mourners  at  her  stern,  — 
And  one  shall  go  the  silent  way 

Who  shall  no  more  return  ! 

And  men  shall  sigh,  and  women  weep, 

Whose  dear  ones  pale  and  pine, 
And  sadly  over  sunset  seas 

Await  the  ghostly  sign. 
They  know  not  that  its  sails  are  filled 

By  pity's  tender  breath, 
Nor  see  the  Angel  at  the  helm 

Who  steers  the  Ship  of  Death  ! 


"  Chill  as  a  down-east  breeze  should 

be," 
The  Book-man  said.     "A  ghostly 

touch 
The  legend  has.     I  'm  glad  to  see 

Your  flying  Yankee  beat  the  Dutch." 

"Well,  here  is  something  of  the  sort 

Which  one  midsummer  day  I  caught 

In  Narragansett  Bay,  for  lack  offish." 

"We  wait,"  the  Traveller  said  ;  "serve 

hot  or  cold  your  dish." 


THE    PALATINE. 

LEAGUES  north,  as  fly  the  gull  and  auk, 
Point  Judith  watches  with  eye  of  hawk  ; 
Leagues  south,  thy  beacon  flames, 

Montauk  ! 

Lonely  and  wind-shorn,  wood-forsaken, 
With  never  a  tree  for  Spring  to  waken, 
For  tryst  of  lovers  or  farewells  taken, 


Circled  by  waters  that  never  freeze, 
Beaten  by  billow  and  swept  by  breeze, 
Lieth  the  island  of  Manisees, 

Set  at  the  mouth  of  the  Sound  to  hold 
The  coast  lights  up  on  its  turret  old, 
Yellow  with  moss  and  sea-fog  mould. 

Dreary  the  land  when  gust  and  sleet 
At  its  doors  and  windows  howl  and  beat, 
And  Winter  laughs  at  its  fires  of  peat ! 

But  in  summer  time,  when  pool  and 

pond, 

Held  in  the  laps  of  valleys  fond, 
Are  blue  as  the  glimpses  of  sea  beyond ; 

When   the   hills    are    sweet  with   the 

brier-rose, 

And,  hid  in  the  warm,  soft  dells,  unclose 
Flowers  the  main-land  rarely  knows ; 

When  boats  to  their  morning  fishing  go, 
And,  held  to  the  wind  and  slanting  low, 
Whitening  and   darkening  the    small 
sails  show,  — 

Then  is  that  lonely  island  fair  ; 

And  the  pale  health-seeker  findeth  there 


The  wine  of  life  in  its  pleasant  air. 


There,  circling  ever  their  narrow  range, 
Quaint  tradition  and  legend  strange 
Live   on   unchallenged,  and  know  no 
change. 

Old  wives  spinning  their  webs  of  tow, 

Or  rocking  weirdly  to  and  fro 

In  and  out  of  the  peat's  dull  glow, 

And  old  men  mending  their  nets   of 

twine, 

Talk  together  of  dream  and  sign, 
Talk  of  the  lost  ship  Palatine,  — 

The  ship  that,  a  hundred  years  before, 
Freighted  deep  with  its  goodly  store, 
In  the  gales  of  the  equinox  went  ashore. 


THE    TENT  ON  THE   BEACH. 


381 


The  eager  islanders  one  by  one 
Counted  the  shots  of  her  signal  gun, 
And  heard  the  crash  when  she  drove 
right  on  ! 

Into  the  teeth  of  death  she  sped  : 
(May  God  forgive  the  hands  that  fed 
The  false  lights  over  the  rocky  Head  ! ) 

O  men  and  brothers  !  what  sights  were 

there  ! 
White  up-turned  faces,  hands  stretched 

in  prayer ! 
Where  wave's  had  pity,  could  ye  not 

spare  ? 

Down  swooped  the  wreckers,  like  birds 

of  prey 

Tearing  the  heart  of  the  ship  away, 
And  the  dead  had  never  a  word  to  say. 

And  then,  with  ghastly  shimmer  and 

shine 

Over  the  rocks  and  the  seething  brine, 
They  burned  the  wreck  of  the  Palatine. 

In  their  cruel  hearts,  as  they  homeward 

sped, 
"The  sea  and  the  rocks  are  dumb," 


they  said  : 
ire  '11  be  no  reckoning  with  the 


"  The 

dead.': 

But  the  year  went  round,  and  when 

once  more 

Along  their  foam-white  curves  of  shore 
They  heard  theline-stormrave  and  roar, 

Behold!  again,  with  shimmer  and  shine, 
Over  the  rocks  and  the  seething  brine, 
The  flaming  wreck  of  the  Palatine  ! 

So,  haply  in  fitter  words  than  these. 
Mending   their  nets   on   their  patient 

knees 
They  tell  the  legend  of  Manisees. 

Nor  looks  nor  tones  a  doubt  betray  ; 
"It  is  known  to  us  all,"  they  quietly 

say; 
"  We  too  have  seen  it  iu  our  day." 


Is  there,   then,  no   death  for  a  word 

once  spoken  ? 

Was  never  a  deed  but  left  its  token 
Written  on  tables  never  broken  ? 

Do  the  elements  subtle  reflections  give  ? 
Do  pictures  of  all  the  ages  live 
On  Nature's  infinite  negative, 

Which,  half  in  sport,  in  malice  half, 
She  shows  at  times,  with  shudder  or 

laugh, 
Phantom  and  shadow  in  photograph  ? 

For  still,  on  many  a  moonless  night, 
From  Kingston  Head  and  from  Mon- 

tauk  light 
The  spectre  kindles  and  burns  in  sight. 

Now  low  and  dim,  now  clear  and  higher, 
Leaps  up  the  terrible  Ghost  of  Fire, 
Then,  slowly  sinking,  the  flames  expire. 

And  the  wise  Sound  skippers,  though 

skies  be  fine, 

Reef  their  sails  when  they  see  the  sign 
Of  the  blazing  wreck  of  the  Palatine  ! 


"A  fitter  tale  to  scream  than  sing," 
The  Book-man  said.     "  Well,  fan 
cy,  then," 

The  Reader  answered,  "  on  the  wing 
The   sea-birds    shriek  it,   not   for 

men, 

But  in  the  ear  of  wave  and  breeze  !  " 
The  Traveller  mused  :  "  Your  Mani 
sees 

Is  fairy-land  :  off  Narragansett  shore 
Who   ever  saw  the   isle  or  heard  its 
name  before  ? 

"  'T  is  some  strange  land  of  Fly- 

awav, 

Whose  dreamy  shore  the  ship  be 
guiles, 
St.  Brandan's  in  its  sea-mist  gray, 

Or  sunset  loom  of  Fortunate  Isles  !" 
"  No  ghost,  but  solid  turf  and  rock 
Is  the  good  island  known  as  Block," 
The  Reader  said.     "  For  beauty  and 

for  ease 

I   chose  its  Indian  name,  soft-flowing 
Manisees  ! 


382 


THE    TENT  ON  THE   BEACH. 


"  But  let  it  pass  ;  here  is  a  bit 

Of  unrhymed  story,  with  a  hint 
Of  the  old  preaching  mood  in  it, 

The  sort  of  sidelong  moral  squint 
Our    friend    objects   to,    which   has 

grown, 

I  fear,  a  habit  of  my  own. 
'T  was  \\ritten  when  the  Asian  plague 

drew  near, 

And  the  "land  held  its  breath  and  paled 
with  sudden  fear." 


ABRAHAM   DAVENPORT. 

IN  the  old  clays  (a  custom  laid  aside 

With  breeches  and  cocked  hats)  the 
people  sent 

Their  wisest  men  to  make  the  public 
laws. 

And  so,  from  a  brown  homestead,  where 
the  Sound 

Drinks  the  small  tribute  of  the  Mianas, 

Waved  over  by  the  woods  of  Rippo- 
wams, 

And  hallowed  by  pure  lives  and  tran 
quil  deaths, 

Stamford  sent  up  to  the  councils  of  the 
State 

Wisdom  and  grace  in  Abraham  Daven 
port. 

'T  was  on  a  May-day  of  the  far  old 

year 
Seventeen  hundred  eighty,  that  there 

fell 
Over  the  bloom  and  sweet  life  of  the 

Spring, 
Over  the  fresh  earth  and  the  heaven  of 

noon, 
A  horror  of  great   darkness,  like   the 

night 
In   day  of  which   the    Norland   sagas 

tell,  — 

The  Twilight  of  the  Gods.     The  low- 
hung  sky 
Was  black  with  ominous  clouds,  save 

where  its  rim 
Was  frint'ed  with  a  dull  glow,  like  that 

which  climbs 
The   crater's   sides  from  the  red  hell 

below. 


Birds  ceased  to  sing,  and  all  the  barn 
yard  fowls 

Rooste'd  ;  the  cattle  at  the  pasture  bars 
Lowed,  and    looked   homeward ;   bats 

on  leathern  wings 
Flitted   abroad ;   the   sounds   of  labor 

died; 
Men   prayed,    and    women  wept ;   all 

ears  grew  sharp 
To  hear  the  doom-blast  of  the  trumpet 

shatter 
The  black  sky,  that  the  dreadful  face 

of  Christ 
Might  look  from  the  rent  clouds,  not 

as  he  looked 

A  loving  guest  at  Bethany,  but  stern 
As  Justice  and  inexorable  Law. 

Meanwhile  in  the  old  State-House, 
dim  as  ghosts, 

Sat  the  lawgivers  of  Connecticut, 

Trembling  beneath  their  legislative 
robes. 

"  It  is  the  Lord's  Great  Day  !  Let  us 
adjourn," 

Some  said  ;  and  then,  as  if  with  one 
accord, 

All  eyes  were  turned  to  Abraham  Dav 
enport. 

He  rose,  slow  cleaving  with  his  steady 
voice 

The  intolerable  hush.  "  This  well  may 
be 

The  Day  of  Judgment  which  the  world 
awaits  ; 

But  be  it  so  or  not,  I  only  know 

My  present  duty,  and  my  Lord's  com 
mand 

To  occupy  till  he  come.  So  at  the 
post 

Where  he  hath  set  me  in  his  provi 
dence, 

I  choose,  for  one,  to  meet  him  face  to 
face,  — 

No  faithless  servant  frightened  from 
my  task, 

But  ready  when  the  Lord  of  the  har 
vest  calls ; 

And  therefore,  with  all  reverence,  I 
would  say, 

Let  God  do  his  work,  we  will  see  to 
ours. 

Bring  in  the  candles."  And  they 
brought  them  in. 


THE    TENT  ON  THE   BEACH. 


333 


Then  by  the  flaring  lights  the  Speaker 
read, 

Albeit  with  husky  voice  and  shaking 
hands, 

An  act  to  amend  an  act  to  regulate 

The  shad  and  alewive  fisheries.  Where 
upon 

Wisely  and  well  spake  Abraham  Da 
venport, 

Straight  to  the  question,  with  no  fig 
ures  of  speech 

Save  the  ten  Arab  signs,  yet  not  with 
out 

The  shrewd  dry  humor  natural  to  the 
man : 

His  awe-struck  colleagues  listening  all 
the  while, 

Between  the  pauses  of  his  argument, 

To  hear  the  thunder  of  the  wrath  of  God 

Break  from  the  hollow  trumpet  of  the 
cloud. 

And  there  he  stands  in  memory  to 

this  day, 
Erect,  self-poised,  a  rugged  face,  half 

seen 
Against   the  background  of  unnatural 

dark, 

A  witness  to  the  ages  as  they  pass, 
That  simple   duty  hath  no  place  for 

fear. 

He    ceased :    just    then    the    ocean 

seemed 

To  lift  a  half- faced  moon  in  sight ; 
And,     shoreward,   o'er    the     waters 

gleamed, 

From  crest  to  crest,  a  line  of  light, 
Such  as  of  old,  with  solemn  awe, 
The  fishers  by  Gennesaret  saw, 
When  dry-shod  o'er  it  walked  the  Son 

of  God, 

Tracking  the  waves  with  light  where'er 
his  sandals  trod. 

Silently  for  a  space  each  eye 

Upon  that  sudden  glory  turned  ; 
Cool  from  the  land  the  breeze  blew 

by, 
The  tent-ropes   flapped,    the  long 

beach  churned 

Its  waves  to  foam  ;  on  either  hand 
Stretched,  far   as  sight,  the  hills  of 
sand  ; 


With  bays  of  marsh,  and  capes  of  bush 

and  tree, 
The   wood's   black   shore-line  loomed 

beyond  the  meadowy  sea. 

The  lady  rose  to  leave.     "  One  song, 
Or   hymn,"   they   urged,   "before 

we  part." 
And  she,  with  lips  to  which  belong 

Sweet  intuitions  of  all  art, 
Gave  to  the  winds  of  night  a  strain 
Which  they  who  heard  would  hear 

again  ; 

And  to  her  voice  the  solemn  ocean  lent, 
Touching  its  harp  of  sand,  a  deep  ac 
companiment. 


The  harp  at  Nature's  advent  strung 

Has  never  ceased  to  play  ; 
The  song  the  stars  of  morning  sung 

Has  never  died  away. 

And  prayer  is  made,  and  praise  is  given, 

By  all  things  near  and  far  : 
The  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven, 

And  mirrors  every  star. 

Its  waves  are  kneeling  on  the  strand, 

As  kneels  the  human  knee, 
Their  white  locks  bowing  to  the  sand, 

The  priesthood  of  the  sea  ! 

They    pour    their  glittering  treasures 
forth, 

Their  gifts  of  pearl  they  bring, 
And  all  the  listening  hills  of  earth 

Take  up  the  song  they  sing. 

The  preen  earth  sends  her  incense  up 
From  many  a  mountain  shrine  ; 

From  folded  leaf  and  dewy  cup 
She  pours  her  sacred  wine. 

The  mists  above  the  morning  rills 
Rise  white  as  wings  of  prayer ; 

The  altar-curtains  of  the  hills 
Are  sunset's  purple  air. 

The   winds  with  hymns  of  praise  are 
loud, 

Or  low  with  sobs  of  pain,  — 
The  thunder-organ  of  the  cloud, 

The  dropping  tears  of  rain. 


3S4 


NATIONAL   LYRICS. 


With    drooping    head    and    branches 
crossed 

The  twilight  forest  grieves, 
Or  speaks   with  tongues  of  Pentecost 

From  all  its  sunlit  leaves. 

The  blue  sky  is  the  temple's  arch, 

Its  transept  earth  and  air, 
The  music  of  its  starry  march 

The  chorus  of  a  prayer. 

So  Nature  keeps  the  reverent  frame 
With  which  her  years  began, 

And  all  her  signs  and  voices  shame 
The  prayerless  heart  of  man. 

The  singer  ceased.     The  moon's  white 
rays 

Fell  on  the  rapt,  still  face  of  her. 
"  A  Hah  il  A  llah  !     He  hath  praise 

From  all  things,"  said  the  Traveller. 


"  Oft  from  the  desert's  silent  nights, 
And     mountain    hymns     of    sunset 

lights, 
My   heart   has  felt  rebuke,  as   in   his 

tent 

The  Moslem's  prayer  has  shamed  my 
Christian  knee  unbent." 

He   paused,  and  lo  !  far,  faint,  and 

slow 
The    bells    in    Newbury's    steeples 

tolled 
The   twelve   dead   hours ;  the  lamp 

burned  low ; 

The  singer  sought  her  canvas  fold. 
One  sadly  said,  "  At  break  of  day 
We  strike  our  tent  and  go  our  way." 
But  one  made  answer  cheerily,  "  Never 

fear, 

We  '11  pitch  this  tent  of  ours  in  type 
another  year." 


NATIONAL    LYRICS. 


THE   MANTLE    OF    ST.    JOHN 
DE    MATHA. 

A  LEGEND  OF    "  THE  RED,  WHITE,  AND 
BLUE,"  A.  D.   1154-1864. 

A  STRONG  and  mighty  Angel, 

Calm,  terrible,  and  bright, 
The  cross  in  blended  red  and  blue 

Upon  his  mantle  white  ! 

Two  captives  by  him  kneeling, 

Each  on  his  broken  chain, 
Sang  praise  to  God  who  raiseth 

The.  dead  to  life  again  ! 

Dropping  his  cross-wrought  mantle, 
"  Wear  this,"  the  Angel  said  ; 

"  Take   thou,  O  Freedom's  priest,  its 

sign,  — 
The  white,  the  blue,  and  red." 

Then  rose  up  John  de  Matha 

In  the  strength  the  Lord  Christ  gave, 

And  begged  through   all   the   land  of 

France 
The  ransom  of  the  slave. 


The  gates  of  tower  and  castle 

Before  him  open  flew, 
The  drawbridge  at  his  coming  fell, 

The  door-bolt  backward  drew. 

For  all  men  owned  his  errand, 
And  paid  his  righteous  tax  ; 

And  the  hearts  of  lord  and  peasant 
Were  in  his  hands  as  wax. 

At  last,  outbound  from  Tunis, 
His  bark  her  anchor  weighed, 

Freighted    with  seven-score  Christian 

souls 
Whose  ransom  he  had  paid. 

But,  torn  by  Paynim  hatred, 

Her  sails  in  tatters  hung  ; 
And  on  the  wild  waves,  rudderless, 

A  shattered  hulk  she  swung. 

"  God  save  us  !  "  cried  the  captain, 
"  For  naught  can  man  avail ; 

O,  woe  betide  the  ship  that  lacks 
Her  rudder  and  her  sail ! 


WHAT  THE   BIRDS  SAID. 


385 


"  Behind  us  are  the  Moormen  ; 

At  sea  we  sink  or  strand  : 
There  's  death  upon  ihe  water, 

There  's  death  upon  the  land  !  " 

Then  up  spake  John  de  Matha  : 

"  God's  errands  never  fail  ! 
Take  thou  the  mantle  which  I  wear, 

And  make  of  it  a  sail." 

They  raised  the   cross-wrought  man 
tle, 

The  blue,  the  white,  the  red  ; 
And  straight  before  the  wind  off-shore 

The  ship  of  Freedom  sped. 

"  God  help  us  !  "  cried  the  seamen, 

"  For  vain  is  mortal  skill : 
The  good  ship  on  a  stormy  sea 

Is  drifting  at  its  will." 

Then  up  spake  John  de  Matha : 
"My  mariners,  never  fear  ! 

The  Lord  whose  breath  has  filled  her 

sail 
May  well  our  vessel  steer  !  " 

So  on  through  storm  and  darkness 
They  drove  for  weary  hours  ; 

And  lo  !  the  third  gray  morning  shone 
On  Ostia's  friendly  towers. 

And  on  the  walls  the  watchers 
The  ship  of  mercy  knew,  — 

They  knew  far  off  its  holy  cross, 
The  red,  the  white,  and  blue. 

And  the  bells  in  all  the  steeples 

Rang  out  in  glad  accord, 
To  welcome  home  to  Christian  soil 

The  ransomed  of  the  Lord. 

So  runs  the  ancient  legend 

By  bard  and  painter  told  ; 
And  lo  !  the  cycle  rounds  again, 

The  new  is  as  the  old  ! 

With  rudder  foully  broken, 

And  sails  by  traitors  torn, 
Our  country  on  a  midnight  sea 

Is  waiting  for  the  morn. 

Before  her,  nameless  terror  ; 
Behind,  the  pirate  foe  ; 
25 


The  clouds  are  black  above  her, 
The  sea  is  white  below. 

The  hope  of  all  who  suffer, 
The  dread  of  all  who  wrong, 

She  drifts  in  darkness  and  in  storm, 
How  long,  O  Lord  !  how  long  ? 

But  courage,  O  my  mariners  ! 

Ye  shall  not  suffer  wreck, 
While  up  to  God  the  freeclman's  prayers 

Are  rising  from  your  deck. 

Is  not  your  sail  the  banner 
Which  God  hath  blest  anew, 

The  mantle  that  De  Matha  wore, 
The  red,  the  white,  the  blue  ? 

Its  hues  are  all  of  heaven,  — 

The  red  of  sunset's  dye, 
The  whiteness  of  the  moon-lit  cloud, 

The  blue  of  morning's  sky. 

Wait  cheerily,  then,  O  mariners, 

For  daylight  and  for  land  ; 
The  breath  of  God  is  in  your  sail, 

Your  rudder  is  His  hand. 

Sail  on,  sail  on,  deep-freighted 
With  blessings  and  with  hopes; 

The  saints  of  old  with  shadowy  hands 
Are  pulling  at  your  ropes. 

Behind  ye  holy  martyrs 

Uplift  the  palm  and  crown  ; 

Before  ye  unborn  ages  send 
Their  benedictions  down. 

Take  heart  from  John  de  Matha !  — 

God's  errands  never  fail ! 
Sweep  on  through  storm  and  darkness, 

The  thunder  and  the  hail ! 

Sail  on  !     The  morning  cometh, 

The  port  ye  yet  shall  win  ; 
And  all  the  bells  of  God  shall  ring 

The  good  ship  bravely  in  1 


WHAT  THE   BIRDS   SAID. 

THK  birds  against  the  April  wind 
Flew  northward,  singing  as  they  flew; 


NATIONAL   LYRICS. 


They  sang,  "  The  land  we  leave  behind 
Has  swords  for  corn-blades,  blood  for 
dew." 

"  O  wild-birds,  flying  from  the  South, 
What    saw    and    heard    ye,   gazing 

down  ? " 

"  We  saw  the  mortar's  upturned  mouth, 
The    sickened     camp,    the    blazing 
town  ! 

**  Beneath  the  bivouac's  starry  lamps, 
We  saw  your  march-worn   children 
die; 

In  shrouds  of  moss,  in  cypress  swamps, 
We  saw  your  dead  uncoffined  lie. 

"We    heard    the    starving    prisoner's 

sighs, 
And  saw,  from  line  and  trench,  your 

sons 

Follow  our  flight  with  home-sick  eyes 
Beyond  the  battery's  smoking  guns." 

"  And  heard  and  saw  ye  only  wrong 
And  pain,"  I  cried,  "O  wing-worn 

flocks?" 
"We  heard,"  they  sang,  "the  freed- 

man's  song, 
The  crash  of  Slavery's  broken  locks  ! 

"We  saw  from  new,  uprising  States 
The  treason-nursingmischief  spurned, 

As,  crowding  Freedom's  ample  gates, 
The  long-estranged  and  lost  returned. 

"  O'er  dusky  faces,  seamed  and  old, 
And  hands  horn-hard  with   unpaid 
toil,  f 

With  hope  in  every  rustling  fold, 
We  saw  your  star-dropt  flag  uncoil. 

"And   struggling  up  through   sounds 

accursed, 

A  grateful  murmur  clomb  the  air ; 
A  whisper  scarcely  heard  at  first, 

It  filled  the  listening  heavens  with 
prayer. 

"  And  sweet  and  far,  as  from  a  star, 
Replied  a  voice  which  shall  not  cease, 

Till,  drowning  all  the  noise  of  war, 
It  sings  the  blessed  song  of  peace  !" 


So  to  me,  in  a  doubtful  day 

Of  chill  and  slowly  greening  spring, 
Low  stopping  from  the  cloudy  gray, 

The  wild-birds  sang  or  seemed  to  sing. 

They  vanished  in  the  misty  air, 

The  song  went  with  them  in  their 
flight ; 

But  lo  !  they  left  the  sunset  fair, 
And  in  the  evening  there  was  light. 


LAUS  DEO! 

ON  HEARING  THE  BELLS  RING  ON  THE 
PASSAGE  OF  THE  CONSTITUTIONAL 
AMENDMENT  ABOLISHING  SLAVERY. 

IT  is  done  ! 

Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 

How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel ! 

How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal, 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town  1 

Ring,  O  bells  ! 
Every  stroke  exulting  tells 

Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 

Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear, 
Ring  for  every  listening  ear 

Of  Eternity  and  Time  ! 

Let  us  kneel : 
God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 

And  this  spot  is  holy  ground. 

Lord,  forgive  us  !     What  are  we, 
That  our  eyes  this  glory  see, 

That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound  ! 

For  the  Lord  _ 
On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad  ; 

In  the  earthquake  he  has  spoken ; 
He  has  smitten  with  his  thunder 
The  iron  walls  asunder, 

And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken  ! 

Loud  and  long 

Lift  the  oM  exulting  song  ; 
Sing  with  Miriam  by  the  sea 

He  has  cast  the  mighty  down  ; 

Horse  and  rider  sink  and  drown  ; 
"  He  hath  triumphed  gloriously  !  " 


THE  PEACE  AUTUMN. 


3*7 


Did  we  dare, 

In  our  agony  of  prayer, 
Ask  for  more  than  He  has  done  ? 

When  was  ever  his  right  hand 

Over  any  time  or  land 
Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun . 

How  they  pale, 
Ancient  myth  and  song  and  tale, 

In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 
When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  righteous  law, 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise  1 

Blotted  out ! 

All  within  and  all  about 
Shall  a  fresher  life  begin  ; 

Freer  breathe  the  universe 

As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse 
On  the  dead  and  buried  sin  ! 

It  is  done  ! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth. 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice, 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice, 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth  ! 

Ring  and  swing, 
Bells  of  joy  !  On  morning's  wing 

Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad  ! 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns, 

Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God  ! 


THE   PEACE   AUTUMN. 

WRITTEN      FOR     THE      ESSEX      COUNTY 
AGRICULTURAL     FESTIVAL,    1865. 

THANK  God  for  rest,  where  none  molest, 
And  none  can  make  afraid,  — 

For  Peace  that  sits  as  Plenty's  guest 
Beneath  the  homestead  shade  ! 

Bring  pike  and  gun,  the   sword's  red 
scourge, 

The  negro's  broken  chains, 
And  beat  them  at  the  blacksmith's  forge 

To  ploughshares  for  our  plains. 


Alike  henceforth  our  hills  of  snow, 
And  vales  where  cotton  flowers  ; 

All  streams  that  flow,  all  winds  that 

blow 
Are  Freedom's  motive-powers. 

Henceforth  to  Labor's  chivalry 

Be  knightly  honors  paid  ; 
For  nobler  than  the  sword's  shall  be 

The  sickle's  accolade. 

Build  up  an  altar  to  the  Lord, 

O  grateful  hearts  of  ours  ! 
And  shape  it  of  the  greenest  sward 

That  ever  drank  the  showers. 

Lay  all  the  bloom  of  gardens  there, 
And  there  the  orchard  fruits  ; 

Bring  golden  grain  from  sun  and  air, 
From  earth  her  goodly  roots. 

There  let  our  banners  droop  and  flow, 

The  stars  uprise  and  fall ; 
Our  roll  of  martyrs,  sad  and  slow, 

Let  sighing  breezes  call. 

Their  names  let  hands  of  horn  and 
tan 

And  rough-shod  feet  applaud, 
Who  died  to  make  the  slave  a  man, 

And  link  with  toil  reward. 

There  let  the  common  heart  keep  time 

To  such  an  anthem  sung 
As  never  swelled  on  poet's  rhyme, 

Or  thrilled  on  singer's  tongue. 

Song  of  our  burden  and  relief, 

Of  peace  and  long  annoy  ; 
The  passion  of  our  mighty  grief 

And  our  exceeding  joy  ! 

A  song  of  praise  to  Him  who  fdled 
The  harvests  sown  in  tears, 

And  gave  each  field  a  double  yield 
To  feed  our  battle-years  ! 

A  song  of  faith  that  trusts  the  end 

To  match  the  good  begun, 
Nor  doubts  the  power  of  Love  to  blend 

The  hearts  of  men  as  one  ! 


388 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


TO  THE  THIRTY-NINTH  CON 
GRESS. 

O  PEOPLE-CHOSEN  !  are  ye  not 
Likewise  the  chosen  of  the  Lord, 
To  do  his  will  and  speak  his  word  ? 

From  the  loud  thunder-storm  of  war 
Not  man  alone  hath  called  ye  forth, 
But  he,  the  God  of  all  the  earth  ! 

The  torch  of  vengeance  in  your  hands 
He  quenches  ;  unto  Him  belongs 
The  solemn  recompense  of  wrongs. 

Enough  of  blood  the  land  has  seen, 
And  not  by  cell  or  gallows-stair 
Shall  ye  the  way  of  God  prepare. 

Say  to  the  pardon-seekers,  —  Keep 
Your  manhood,  bend  no  suppliant 

knees, 
Nor  palter  with  unworthy  pleas. 

Above  your  voices  sounds  the  wail 
Of  starving  men  ;  we  shut  in  vain 
Our  eyes  to  Pillow's  ghastly  stain. 

What  words  can  drown  that  bitter  cry? 
What  tears  wash  out   that  stain  of 

death  ? 
What  oathsconfirm  your  broken  faith? 

From  you  alone  the  guaranty 
Of  union,  freedom,  peace,  we  claim  ; 
We  urge  no    conqueror's  terms  of 
shame. 


Alas  !  no  victor's  pride  is  ours  ; 
We  bend  above  our  triumphs  won 
Like  David  o'er  his  rebel  son. 

Be  men,  not  beggars.     Cancel  all 
By  one  brave,  generous  action  ;  trust 
Your  better  instincts,  and  be  just ! 

Make  all  men  peers  before  the  law, 
Take    hands  from   off   the    negro's 

throat, 
Give  black  and  white  an  equal  vote. 

Keep  all  your  forfeit  lives  and  lands, 
But  give  the  common  law's  redress 
To  labor's  utter  nakedness. 

Revive  the  old  heroic  will ; 

Be  in  the  right  as  brave  and  strong 
As  ye   have  proved    yourselves    in 
wrong. 

Defeat  shall  then  be  victory, 

Your  loss  the  wealth  of  full  amends, 
And  hate  be  love,  and  foes  be  friends. 

Then  buried  be  the  dreadful  past, 
Its  common  slain  be  mourned,  and 

let 
All  memories  soften  to  regret. 

Then  shall  the  Union's  mother-heart 
Her  lost  and  wandering  ones  recall, 
Forgiving  and  restoring  all,  — 

And  Freedom  break  her  marble  trance 
Above  the  Capitolian  dome, 
Stretch  hands,  and  bid  ye  welcome 
home  1 


OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 


THE   ETERNAL  GOODNESS. 

O  FRIENDS  !  with  whom  my  feet  have 

trod 

The  quiet  aisles  of  prayer, 
Glad  witness  to  your  zeal  for  God 
L  And  love  of  man  I  bear. 


I  trace  your  lines  of  argument; 

Your  logic  linked  and  strong 
I  weigh  as  one  who  dreads  dissent, 

And  fears  a  doubt  as  wrong. 

But  still  my  huwian  hands  are  weak 
To  hold  your  iron  creeds  : 


OUR   MASTER. 


389 


Against  the  words  ye  bid  me  speak 
My  heart  within  me  pleads. 

Who  fathoms  the  Eternal  Thought  ? 

Who  talks  of  scheme  and  plan  ? 
The  Lord  is  God  !     He  needeth  not 

The  poor  device  of  man. 

I  walk  with  bare,  hushed  feet  the  ground 
Ye  tread  with  boldness  shod  ; 

I  dare  not  fix  with  mete  and  bound 
The  love  and  power  of  God. 

Ye  praise  His  justice  ;  even  such 

His  pitying  love  I  deem  : 
Ye  seek  a  king  ;  I  fain  would  touch 

The  robe  that  hath  no  seam. 

Ye  see  the  curse  which  overbroods 

A  world  of  pain  and  loss  ; 
I  hear  our  Lord's  beatitudes 

And  prayer  upon  the  cross. 

More  than  your  schoolmen  teach,  within 

Myself,  alas  !  I  know; 
To©  dark  ye  cannot  paint  the  sin, 

Too  small  the  merit  show. 

I  bow  my  forehead  to  the  dust, 

I  veil  mine  eyes  for  shame, 
And  urge,  in  trembling  self-distrust, 

A  prayer  without  a  claim. 

I  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies, 

I  feel  the  guilt  within  ; 
I  hear,  with  groan  and  travail-cries, 

The  world  confess  its  sin. 

Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things, 
And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood, 

To  one  fixed  stake  my  spirit  clings ; 
I  know  that  God  is  good  ! 

Not  mine  to  look  where  cherubim 

And  seraphs  may  not  see, 
But  nothing  can  be  good  in  Him 

Which  evil  is  in  me. 

The  wrong  that  pains  my  soul  below 

I  dare  not  throne  above  : 
I  know  not  of  His  hate,  —  I  know 

His  goodness  and  His  love. 


I  dimly  guess  from  blessings  known 

Of  greater  out  of  sight, 
And,  with  the  chastened  Psalmist,  own 

His  judgments  too  are  right. 

I  long  for  household  voices  gone, 
For  vanished  smiles  I  long, 

But  God  hath  led  my  dear  ones  on, 
And  He  can  do  no  wrong. 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 

And  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are  weak 

To  bear  an  untried  pain, 
The  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break, 

But  strengthen  and  sustain. 

No  offering  of  my  own  I  have, 
Nor  works  my  faith  to  prove  ; 

I  can  but  give  the  gifts  He  gave, 
And  plead  His  love  for  love. 

And  so  beside  the  Silent  Sea 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar  ; 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 

I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 
Their  fronded  palms  in  air  ; 

I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 
Beyond  His  love  and  care. 

O  brothers  !  if  my  faith  is  vain, 

If  hopes  like  these  betray, 
Pray  for  me  that  my  feet  may  gain 

The  sure  and  safer  way. 

And  Thou,  O  Lord  !  by  whom  are  seen 

Thy  creatures  as  they  be, 
Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 

My  human  heart  on  Thee  ! 


OUR   MASTER. 

IMMORTAL  Love,  forever  full, 
Forever  flowing  free, 

Forever  shared,  forever  whole, 
A  never-ebbing  sea ! 


39° 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


Our  outward  lips  confess  the  name 

All  other  names  above  ; 
Love  only  knoweth  whence  it  came, 

And  comprehendeth  love. 

Blow,  winds  of  God,  awake  and  blow 

The  mists  of  earth  away  I 
Shine  out,  O  Light  Divine,  and  show 

How  wide  and  iar  we  stray  I 

Hush  every  lip,  close  every  book, 
The  striie  of  tongues  forbear  ; 

Why  forward  reach,  or  backward  look, 
For  love  that  clasps  like  air  ? 

We  may  not  climb  the  heavenly  steeps 
To  bring  the  Lord  Christ  down  : 

In  vain  we  search  the  lowest  deeps, 
For  him  no  depths  can  drown. 

Nor  holy  bread,  nor  blood  of  grape, 

The  lineaments  restore 
Of  him  we  know  in  outward  shape 

And  in  the  flesh  no  more. 

He  cometh  not  a  king  to  reign  ; 

The  world's  long  hope  is  dim  ; 
The  weary  centuries  watch  in  vain 

The  clouds  of  heaven  for  him. 

Death  comes,  life  goes  ;  the  asking  eye 

And  ear  are  answerless  ; 
The  grave  is  dumb,  the  hollow  sky 

Is  sad  with  silentness. 

The  letter  fails,  and  systems  fall, 

And  every  symbol  wanes  ; 
The  Spirit  over-brooding  all 

Eternal  Love  remains. 

And  not  for  signs  in  heaven  above 

Or  earth  below  they  look, 
Who  know  with  John  his  smile  of  love, 

With  Peter  his  rebuke. 

In  joy  of  inward  peace,  or  sense 

Of  sorrow  over  sin, 
He  is  his  own  best  evidence, 

His  witness  is  within. 

No  fable  old,  nor  mythic  lore, 
Nor  dream  of  bards  and  seers, 

No  dead  fact  stranded  on  the  shore 
Of  the  oblivious  years ;  — 


But  warm,  sweet,  tender,  even  yet 

A  present  help  is  he  ; 
And  faith  has  still  its  Olivet, 

And  love  its  Galilee. 

The  healing  of  his  seamless  dress 

Is  by  our  beds  of  pain  ; 
We  touch  him  in  life's  throng  and  press, 

And  we  are  whole  again. 

Through  him  the  first  fond  prayers  are 
said 

Our  lips  of  childhood  frame, 
The  last  low  whispers  of  our  dead 

Are  burdened  with  his  name. 

O  Lord  and  Master  of  us  all  I 
Whate'er  our  name  or  sign, 

We  own  thy  sway,  we  hear  thy  call, 
We  test  our  lives  by  thine. 

Thou  judgest  us  ;  thy  purity 
Doth  all  our  lusts  condemn  ; 

The  love  that  draws  us  nearer  thee 
Is  hot  with  wrath  to  them. 

Our  thoughts  lie  open  to  thy  sight ; 

And,  naked  to  thy  glance, 
Our  secret  sins  are  in  the  light 

Of  thy  pure  countenance. 

Thy  healing  pains,  a  keen  distress 
Thy  tender  light  shines  in  ; 

Thy  sweetness  is  the  bitterness, 
Thy  grace  the  pang  of  sin. 

Yet,  weak  and  blinded  though  we  be, 
Thou  dost  our  service  own  ; 

We  bring  our  varying  gifts  to  thee, 
And  thou  rejectest  none. 

To  thee  our  full  humanity, 

Its  joys  and  pains,  belong  ; 
The  wrong  of  man  to  man  on  thee 

Inflicts  a  deeper  wrong. 

Who  hates,  hates  thee,  who  loves  be 
comes 

Therein  to  thee  allied  ; 
All  sweet  accords  of  hearts  and  homes 

In  thee  are  multiplied. 


THE    VANISH ERS. 


391 


Deep  strike  thy  roots,  O  heavenly  Vine, 

Within  our  earthly  sod, 
Most  human  and  yet  most  divine, 

The  flower  of  man  and  God  ! 

O  Love  !  O  Life  !     Our  faith  and  sight 

Thy  presence  maketh  one  : 
As  through  transfigured  clouds  of  white 

We  trace  the  noon-day  sun. 

So,  to  our  mortal  eyes  subdued, 
Flesh-veiled,  but  not  concealed, 

We  know  in  thee  the  fatherhood 
And  heart  ol  God  revealed. 

We  faintly  hear,  \ve  dimly  see, 
In  differing  phrase  we  pray; 

But,  dim  or  clear,  we  own  in  thee 
The  Light,  the  Truth,  the  Way  ! 

The  homage  that  we  render  thee 

Is  still  our  Father's  own  ; 
Nor  jealous  claim  or  rivalry 

Divides  the  Cross  and  Throne. 

To  do  thy  will  is  more  than  praise, 
As  words  are  less  than  deeds, 

And  simple  trust  can  find  thy  ways 
We  miss  with  chart  of  creeds. 

No  pride  of  self  thy  service  hath, 
No  place  for  me  and  mine  ; 

Our  human  strength  is  weakness,  death 
Our  life,  apart  from  thine. 

Apart  from  thee  all  gain  is  loss, 

All  labor  vainly  done  ; 
The  solemn  shadow  of  thy  Cross 

Is  better  than  the  sun. 

Alone,  O  Love  ineffable  ! 

Thy  saving  name  is  given  ; 
To  turn  aside  from  thee  is  hell, 

To  walk  with  thee  is  heaven  ! 

How  vain,  secure  in  all  thou  art, 
Our  noisy  championship  !  — 

The  sighing  of  the  contrite  heart 
Is  more  than  flattering  lip. 

Not  thine  the  bigot's  partial  plea, 
Nor  thine  the  zealot's  ban  ; 

Thou  well  canst  spare  a  love  of  thee 
Which  ends  in  hate  of  man. 


Our    Friend,    our    Brother,    and    our 
Lord, 

What  may  thy  service  be?  — 
Nor  name,  nor  form,  nor  ritual  word, 

But  simply  following  thee. 

We  bring  no  ghastly  holocaust, 

We  piie  no  graven  stone  ; 
He  serves  thee  best  who  loveth  most 

His  brothers  and  thy  own. 

Thy  litanies,  sweet  offices 

Of  love  and  gratitude  ; 
Thy  sacramental  liturgies, 

The  joy  of  doing  good. 

In  vain  shall  waves  of  incense  drift 

The  vaulted  nave  around, 
Iri  vain  the  minster  turret  lift 

Its  brazen  weights  of  sound. 

The   heart  must  ring    thy   Christmas 
bells, 

Thy  inward  altars  raise  ; 
Its  faith  and  hope  thy  canticles, 

And  its  obedience  praise  1 


THE  VANISHERS. 

SWEETEST  of  all  childlike  dreams 

In  the  simple  Indian  lore 
Still  to  me  the  legend  seems 

Of  the  shapes  who  flit  before. 

Flitting,  passing,  seen  and  gone, 
Never  reached  nor  found  at  rest, 

Baffling  search,  but  beckoning  on 
To  the  Sunset  of  the  Blest. 

From  the  clefts  of  mountain  rocks, 
Through  the  dark  of  lowland  firs, 

Flash  the  eyes  and  flow  the  locks 
Of  the  mystic  Vanishers  ! 

And  the  fisher  in  his  skiff, 
And  the  hunter  on  the  moss, 

Hear  their  call  from  cape  and  cliff, 
See  their  hands  the  birch-leaves  toss. 

Wistful,  longing,  through  the  green 
Twilight  of  the  clustered  pines, 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


In  their  faces  rarely  seen 

Beauty  more  than  mortal  shines. 

Fringed  with  gold  their  mantles  flow 
On  the  slopes  of  westering  knolls; 

In  the  wind  they  whisper  low 
Of  the  Sunset  Land  of  Souls. 

Doubt  who  may,  O  friend  of  mine  ! 

Thou  and  I  have  seen  them  too  ; 
On  before  with  beck  and  sign 

Still  they  glide,  and  we  pursue. 

More  than  clouds  of  purple  trail 

In  the  gold  of  setting  day  ; 
More  than  gleams  of  wing  or  sail 

Beckon  from  the  sea-mist  gray. 

Glimpses  of  immortal  youth, 

Gleams  and  glories  seen  and  flown,' 

Far-heard  voices  sweet  with  truth, 
Airs  from  viewless  Eden  blown,  — 

Beauty  that  eludes  our  grasp, 

Sweetness  that  transcends  our  taste, 

Loving  hands  we  may  not  clasp, 
Shining  feet  that  mock  our  haste,  — 

Gentle  eye«  we  closed  below, 
Tender  voices  heard  once  more, 

Smile  and  call  us,  as  they  go 
On  and  onward,  still  before. 

Guided  thus,  O  friend  of  mine  ! 

Let  us  walk  our  little  way, 
Knowing  by  each  beckoning  sign 

That  we  are  not  quite  astray. 

Chase  we  still,  with  baffled  feet, 
Smiling  eye  and  waving  hand, 

Sought  and  seeker  soon  shall  meet, 
Lost  and  found,  in  Sunset  Land ! 


REVISITED. 

READ   AT    THE    "LAURELS,"     ON    THE 
MERRIMACK,  6TH    MONTH,   186$. 

THE  roll  of  drums  and  the  bugle's  wail 
ing 
Vex  the  air  of  our  vales  no  more ; 


The  spear  is  beaten  to  hooks  of  pruning, 
The  share  is  the  sword  the  soldier 


Sing  soft,  sing  low,  our  lowland  river, 
Under  thy  banks  of  laurel  bloom  ; 

Softly  and  sweet,  as  the  hour  beseemeth, 
Sing  us  the  songs  of  peace  and  home. 

Let  all  the  tenderer  voices  of  nature 
Temper  the    triumph    and    chasten 

mirth, 
Full  of  the  infinite  love  and  pity 

For    fallen    martyr    and     darkened 
hearth. 

But  to  Him  who  gives  us  beauty  for 

ashes, 

And  the  oil  of  joy  for  mourning  long, 
Let  thy  hills  give  thanks,  and  all  thy 

waters 
Break  into  jubilant  waves  of  song  ! 

Bring  us  the  airs  of  hills  and  forests, 
The  sweet  aroma  of  birch  and  pine, 

Give  us  a  waft  of  the  north-wind,  laden 
With  sweetbrier  odors  and  breath  of 
kine! 

Bring  us  the  purple  of  mountain  sunsets, 

Shadows  of  clouds  that  rake  the  hills, 

The  green    repose    of   thy   Plymouth 

meadows, 

The  gleam  and  ripple  of  Campton 
rills. 

Lead  us  away  in  shadow  and  sunshine, 
Slaves  of  fancy,  through  all  thy  miles, 

The  winding  ways  of  Pemigewasset, 
And  Winnipesaukee's  hundred  isles. 

Shatter  in  sunshine  over  thy  ledges, 
Laugh  in  thy  plunges  from  fall  to  fall ; 

Play  with  thy  fringes  of  elms,  and  darken 
Under  the  shade  of  the  mountain  wall. 

The  cradle-song  of  thy  hillside  fountains 
Here  in  thy  glory  and  strength  repeat ; 

Give  us  a  taste  of  thy  upland  music, 
Show  us  the  dance  of  thy  silver  feet. 

Into  thy  dutiful  life  of  uses 
Pour  the  music  andweave  theflowers; 


BRYANT  ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY. 


393 


With  the  song  of  birds  and  bloom  of 

meadows 

Lighten  and  gladden  thy  heart  and 
ours. 

Sing  on  !  bring  down,  O  lowland  river, 
The  joy  of  the  hills  to  the  waiting 

sea; 
The  wealth  of  the  vales,  the  pomp  of 

mountains, 

The  breath  of  the  woodlands,  bear 
with  thee. 

Here,  in  the  calm  of  thy  seaward  valley, 
M  irth  and  labor  shall  hold  their  truce ; 

Dance  of  water  and  mill  of  grinding, 
Both  are  beauty  and  both  are  use. 

Type  of  the  Northland's  strength  and 

glory, 
Pride   and  hope   of  our  home   and 

race, — 

:. freedom  lending  to  rugged  labor 
Tints  of  beauty  and  lines  of  grace. 

Once  again,  O  beautiful  river, 

Hear  our  greetings  and    take    our 
thanks ; 

Hither  we  come,  as  Eastern  pilgrims 
Throng  to  the  Jordan's  sacred  banks. 

For  though  by  the  Master's  feet  un 
trodden, 
Though  never  his  word  has  stilled 

thy  waves, 

Well  for  us  may  thy  shores  be  holy, 
With   Christian    altars    and    saintly 
graves. 

And  well  may  we  own  thy  hint   and 

token 
Of  fairer  valleys   and  streams  than 

these, 

Where  the  riversof  God  are  full  of  water, 
And  full  of  sap  are  his  healing  trees  ! 


THE  COMMON  QUESTION. 

BEHIND  us  at  our  evening  meal 

The  gray  bird  ate  his  fill, 
Swung  downward  by  a  single  claw, 

And  wiped  his  hooked  bill. 


He  shook  his  wings  and  crimson  tail, 

And  set  his  head  aslant, 
And,  in  his  sharp,  impatient  way, 

Asked,  "  What  does  Charlie  want  ? " 

"  Fie,  silly  bird  !  "  I  answered,  "tuck 
Your  head  beneath  your  wing, 

And  go  to  sleep  "  ;  —  but  o'er  and  o'er 
He  asked  the  selfsame  thing. 

Then,  smiling,  to  myself  I  said  : — • 
How  like  are  men  and  birds  1 

We  all  are  saying  what  he  says, 
In  action  or  in  words. 

The  boy  with  whip  and  top  and  drum, 
The  girl  \yith  hoop  and  doll, 

And  men  with  lands  and  houses,  ask 
The  question  of  Poor  Poll. 

However  full,  with  something  more 
We  fain  the  bag  would  cram  ; 

We  sigh  above  our  crowded  nets 
For  lish  that  never  swam. 

No  bounty  of  indulgent  Heaven 
The  vague  desire  can  stay  ; 

Self-love  is  still  a  Tartar  mill 
For  grinding  prayers  alway. 

The  dear  God  hears  and  pities  all ; 

He  knoweth  all  our  wants  ; 
And  what  we  blindly  ask  of  him 


^.nd  what  we  blindly  asl 
His  love  withholds  or 


grants. 


And  so  I  sometimes  think  our  prayers 
Might  well  be  merged  in  one  ; 

And  nest  and  perch   and  hearth  and 

church 
Repeat,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 


BRYANT   ON   HIS   BIRTHDAY. 

WE  praise  not  now  the  poet's  art, 
The  rounded  beauty  of  his  song  ; 

Who  weighs  him  from  his  life  apart 
Must  do  his  nobler  nature  wrong. 

Not  for  the  eye,  familiar  grown 
With   charms  to  common  sight   de 
nied,  — 


394 


'OCCA  SI  ON  A  L   POEMS. 


The  marvellous  gift  lie  shares  alone 
With  him  who  walked  on  Rydal-side  ; 

Not  for  rapt  hymn  nor  woodland  lay, 
Too  grave  lor  smiles,  too  sweet  for 
tears ; 

We  speak  his  praise  who  wears  to-day 
The  glory  of  his  seventy  years. 

When  Peace  brings   Freedom  in   her 
train, 

Let  happy  lips  his  songs  rehearse  ; 
His  life  is  now  his  noblest  strain, 

His  manhood  better  than  his  verse  ! 

Thank  God  !  his  hand  on  Nature's  keys 
Its  cunning  keeps  at  life's  full  span  ; 

Hut,  dimmed  and  dwarfed,  in  times  like 

these, 
The  poet  seems  beside  the  man  ! 

So  be  it !  let  the  garlands  die, 

The    singer's  wreath,    the  painter's 
meed, 

Let  our  names  perish,  if  thereby 

Our  country  may  be  saved  and  freed  ! 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  OPENING  OF  THOMAS  STARR 
KING'S  HOUSE  OF  WORSHIP,  1864. 

AMIDST  these  glorious  works  of  thine, 
The  solemn  minarets  of  the  pine, 
And  awful  Shasta's  icy  shrine,  — 

Where  swell  thy  hymns  from  wave  and 

gale, 

And  organ-thunders  never  fail, 
Behind  the  cataract's  silver  veil,  — 

Our  puny  walls  to  Thee  we  raise, 

Our  poor  reed-music  sounds  thy  praise  : 

Forgive,  O  Lord,  our  childish  ways  ! 

For,  kneeling  on  these  altar-stairs, 
We  urge  Thee  not  with  selfish  prayers, 
Nor  murmur  at  our  daily  cares. 

Before  Thee,  in  an  evil  day, 

Our  country's  bleeding  heart  we  lay, 

And  dare  not  ask  thy  hand  to  stay ; 


But,  through  the  war-cloud,  pray  tothee 
For  union,  but  a  union  free, 
With  peace  that  comes  of  purity  ! 

That  Thou  wilt  bare  thy  arm  to  save, 
And,    smiting  through   this   Red    Sea 

wave, 
Make  broad  a  pathway  for  the  slave  ! 

For  us,  confessing  all  our  need, 
Wre  trust  nor  rite  nor  word  nor  deed, 
Nor  yet  the  broken  staff  of  creed. 

Assured  alone  that  Thou  art  good 
To  each,  as  to  the  multitude, 
Eternal  Love  and  Fatherhood,  — 

Weak,  sinful,  blind,  to  Thee  we  kneel, 
Stretch    dumbly   forth  our  hands,  and 

feel 
Our  weakness  is  our  strong  appeal. 

So,  by  these  Western  gates  of  Even 
We  wait  to  see  with  thy  forgiven 
The  opening  Golden  G'ate  of  Heaven  ! 

Suffice  it  now.     In  time  to  be 
Shall  holier  altars  rise  to  thee,  — 
Thy  Church  our  broad  humanity  ! 

White   flowers  of  love  its  walls  shall 

climb, 

Soft  bells  of  peace  shall  ring  its  chime, 
Its  days  shall  all  be  holy  time. 

A  sweeter  song  shall  then  be  heard,  — 
The  music  of  the  world's  accord 
Confessing  Christ,  the  Inward  Word  ! 

That  song  shall  swell   from  shore  to 

shore, 

One  hope,  one  faith,  one  love,  restore 
The  seamless  robe  that  Jesus  wore. 


THOMAS   STARR   KING. 

THE  great  work  laid  upon  his  twoscore 

years 
Is  done,  and  well  done.    If  we  drop  our 

tears, 


THOMAS  STARR  KING. 


395 


Who  loved  him  as  few  men  were  ever 
loved, 

We  mourn  no  blighted  hope  nor  bro 
ken  plan 

With  him  whose  life  stands  rounded 
and  appi'oved 

In  the  full  growth  and  stature  of  a  man. 

Mingle,  Obells,  alongthe  Western  slope, 

With  your  deep  toll  a  sound  of  faith 
and  hope ! 

Wave  cheerily  still,  O  banner,  half-way 
down, 

From  thousand-masted  bay  and  stee- 
pled  town  1 


Let  the  strong  organ  with  its  loftiest 

swell 
Lift  the  proud  sorrow  of  the  land,  and 

tell 
That  the  brave  sower  saw  his  ripened 

grain. 
O  East  and  West !  O  morn  and  sunset 

twain 
No   more  forever  !  —  has   he  lived  in 

vain 
Who,  priest  of  Freedom,  made  ye  one, 

and  told 
Your  bridal   service   from  his  lips  of 

gold? 


AMONG   THE    HILLS, 


AND 


OTHER   POEMS, 


1868. 


TO 

ANNIE     FIELDS 
Cfjts  ILtttle  Folunu, 

DESCRIPTIVE  OF  SCENES  117TH  WHICH  SHE  IS  FAMILIAR 

IS 
GRATEFULLY    OFFERED. 


AMONG    THE    HILLS. 


PRELUDE. 

,  ALONG  the  roadside,  like  the  flowers 
of  gold 

That   tawny  Incas  for  their  gardens 
wrought, 

Heavy  with  sunshine  droops  the  gol 
den-rod, 

And  the  red  pennons  of  the  cardinal- 
flowers 

Hang  motionless  upon   their  upright 
staves. 

The   sky  is    hot  and    hazy,   and  the 
wind, 

Wing- weary  with  its  long  flight  from 
the  south, 

Unfelt ;  yet,  closely  scanned,  yon  ma 
ple  leaf 

With  faintest  motion,  as  one  stirs  in 
dreams, 

Confesses  it.     The  locust  by  the  wall 

Stabs  the  noon-silence  with  his  sharp 
alarm. 

A  single  hay-cart  down  the  dusty  road 

Creaks    slowly,    with    its    driver    fast 
asleep 

On  the  load's  top.     Against  the  neigh 
boring  hill, 

Huddled  along  the  stone  wall's  shady 
side, 

The  sheep  show  white,  as  if  a  snow 
drift  still  - 

Defied    the    dog-star.   \Through    the 

open  door 

I  A  drowsy  smell  of  flowers  —  gray  helio 
trope, 

And  white  sweet-clover,  and  shy  migno 
nette  — 

Comes    fiintly   in,    and   silent   chorus 
lends 

To  the  pervading  symphony  of  peace. 

No   time  is  this  for  hands  long  over 
worn 


To  task  their  strength  :  and  (unto  Him 

be  praise 
Who  giveth  quietness  !)  the  stress  and 

strain 

Of  years  that  did  the  work   of  cen 
turies 
Have   ceased,  and  we  can  draw  our 

breath  once  more 

Freely  and  full.     So,  as  yon  harvesters 
Make  glad  their  nooning  underneath 

the  elms 
With  tale  and  riddle  and  old  snatch 

of  song, 

I  lay  aside  grave  themes,  and  idly  turn 
The  leaves  of  Memory's  sketch-book, 

dreaming  o'er 

Old  summer  pictures  of  the  quiet  hills, 
And  human  life,  as  quiet,  at  their  feet. 

And  yet  not  idly  all.     A  farmer's  son, 
Proud  of  field-lore  and  harvest  craft, 

and  feeling 

All  their  fine  possibilities,  how  rich 
And  restful  even  poverty  and  toil 
Become   when  beauty,  harmony,  and 

love 
Sit  at  their  humble  hearth  as  angels 

sat 
At  evening    in  the    patriarch's    tent, 

when  man 
Makes  labor  noble,  and  his  farmer's 

frock 

The  symbol  of  a  Christian  chivalry 
Tender  and  just  and  generous  to  her 
Who  clothes  with  grace  all  duty  ;  still, 

I  know 
Too    well    the    picture    has   another 

side,  — 
How  wearily   the   grind   of  toil  goes, 

on 
Where  love  is  wanting,  how  the   eye 

and  ear 

And  heart  are  starved  amidst  the  plen 
itude 


400 


AMONG   THE  HILLS. 


Of  nature,  and  how  hard  and  colorless 

Is  life  without  an  atmosphere.     I  look 

Across  the  lapse  of  half  a  century, 

And  call  to  mind  old  homesteads, 
where  no  flower 

Told  that  the  spring  had  come,  but 
evil  weeds, 

Nightshade  and  rough-leaved  burdock 
in  the  place 

Of  the  sweet  doorway  greeting  of  the 
rose 

And  honeysuckle,  where  the  house 
walls  seemed 

Blistering  in  sun,  without  a  tree  or 
vine 

To  cast  the  tremulous  shadow  of  its 
leaves 

Across  the  curtainless  windows  from 
whose  panes 

Fluttered  the  signal  rags  of  shiftless- 
ness  ; 

Within,  the  cluttered  kitchen-floor, 
unwashed 

(Broom-clean  I  think  they  called  it) ; 
the  best  room 

Stifling  with  cellar  damp,  shut  from 
the  air 

In  hot  midsummer,  bookless,  picture- 
less 

Save  the  inevitable  sampler  hung 

Over  the  fireplace,  or  a  mourning- 
piece, 

A  green-haired  woman,  peony-cheeked, 
beneath 

Impossible  willows ;  the  wide-throated 
hearth 

Bristling  with  faded  pine-boughs  half 
concealing 

The  piled-up  rubbish  at  the  chimney's 
back  ; 

And,  in  sad  keeping  with  all  things 
about  them, 

Shrill,  querulous  women,  sour  and 
sullen  men, 

Untidy,  loveless,  old  before  their  time, 

With  scarce  a  human  interest  save 
their  own 

Monotonous  round  of  small  economies, 

Or  the  poor  scandal  of  the  neighbor 
hood  ; 

Blind  to  the  beauty  everywhere  re 
vealed, 

Treacling  the  May-flo.wers  with  regard 
less  feet ; 


For  them   the  song-sparrow  and  the 

bobolink 
Sang  not,  nor  winds  made   music  in 

the  leaves ; 

For  them  in  vain  October's  holocaust 
Burned,  gold  and  crimson,  over  all  the 

hills, 

The  sacramental  mystery  of  the  woods. 
Church-goers,  fearful    of  the    unseen 

Powers, 
But    grumbling    over    pulpit-tax  and 

pew-rent, 
Saving,   as  shrewd    economists,   their 

souls 

And  winter  pork  with  the  least  possi 
ble  outlay 

Of  salt  and  sanctity  ;  in  daily  life 
Showing  as  little  actual  comprehension 
Of  Christian  charity  and  love  and  duty, 
As  if  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  had 

been 

Outdated  like  a  last  year's  almanac  : 
Rich  in  broad  woodlands  and  in  half* 

tilled  fields, 
And  yet  so  pinched  and  bare  and  com' 

fortless, 
The  veriest  straggler  limping  on  h.M 

rounds, 

The  sun  and  air  his  sole  inheritance, 
Laughed  at   a   poverty  that    paid    itrf 

taxes, 

And   hugged  his  rags  in  self-compla 
cency  ! 

Not  such  should  be  the  homesteads  o/ 

a  land 
Where  whoso  wisely  wills  and  acts  ma*/ 

dwell 
As  king  and  lawgiver,  in  broad-acred 

state, 
With  beauty,  art,  taste,  culture,  book,^ 

to  make 

His  hour  of  leisure  richer  than  a  life 
Of  fourscore  to  the  barons  of  old  time, 
Our  yeoman  should   be  equal  to  his 

home 
Set  in   the  fair,  green  valleys,  purple 

walled, 
A  man  to  match  his  mountains,  not  to 

creep 
Dwarfed  and  abased  below  them.     I 

would  fain 
In  this  light  way   (of  which    I   needs 

must  own 


AMONG   THE  HILLS, 


401 


With  the  knife-  grinder  of  whom  Can 
ning  sings, 

"  Story,  God  bless  you  !  I  have  none 
to  tell  you  !  ") 

Invite  the  eye  to  see  and  heart  to  feel 

The  beauty  and  the  joy  within  their 
reach, — 

Home,  and  home  loves,  and  the  beati 
tudes 

Of  nature  free  to  all.     Haply  in  years 

That  wait  to  take  the  places  of  our 
own, 

Heard  where  some  breezy  balcony 
looks  down 

On  happy  homes,  or  where  the  lake  in 
the  moon 

Sleeps  dreaming  of  the  mountains,  fair 
as  Ruth, 

In  the  old  Hebrew  pastoral,  at  the 
feet 

Of  Boaz,  even  this  simple  lay  of  mine 

May  seem  the  burden  of  a  prophecy, 

Finding  its  late  fulfilment  in  a  change 

Slow  as  the  oak's  growth,  lifting  man 
hood  up 

Through  broader  culture,  finer  man 
ners,  love, 

And  reverence,  to  the  level  of  the  hills. 

O  Golden  Age,  whose  light  is  of  the 
dawn, 

And  not  of  sunset,  forward,  not  behind, 

Flood  the  new  heavens  and  earth,  and 
with  thee  bring 

All  the  old  virtues,  whatsoever  things 

Are  pure  and  honest  and  of  good  re 
pute, 

But  add  thereto  whatever  bard  has 
sung 

Or  seer  has  told  of  when  in  trance  and 
dream 

They  saw  the  Happy  Isles  of  prophe 
cy  ! 

Let  Justice  hold  her  scale,  and  Truth 
divide 

Between  the  right  and  wrong ;  but 
give  the  heart 

The  freedom  of  its  fair  inheritance  ; 

Let   the   poor  prisoner,   cramped  and 


starved  so  long, 
fatur 
eye 


At  Nature's   table 


g. 
feast 


his  ear  and 


With   joy   and  wonder ;    let  all  har 
monies 


Of  sound,   form,   color,   motion,  wait 

upon 
The   princely  guest,   whether  in  soft 

attire 
Of  leisure  clad,  or  the  coarse  frock  of 

toil. 
And,  lending  life  to  the  dead  form  of 

faith, 
Give  human  nature  reverence  for  the 

sake 

Of  One  who  bore  it,  making  it  divine 
With  the  ineffable  tenderness  of  God  ; 
Let  common  need,  the  brotherhood  of 

prayer, 

The  heirship  of  an  unknown  destiny, 
The  unsolved  mystery  round  about  us, 

make 
A  man  more  precious  than  the  gold  of 

Ophir. 

Sacred,  inviolate,  unto  whom  all  things 
Should  minister,  as  outward  types  and 

signs 

Of  the  eternal  beauty  which  fulfils 
The  one  great    purpose   of  creation, 

Love, 

The  sole  necessity  of  Earth  and  Heav 
en  ! 


AMONG  THE  HILLS. 

FOR  weeks  the  clouds  had  raked  the 
hills 

And  vexed  the  vales  with  raining. 
And  all  the  woods  were  sad  with  mist, 

And  all  the  brooks  complaining. 

At  last,  a  sudden  night-storm  tore 
The  mountain  veils  asunder, 

And  swept  the  valleys  clean  before 
The  besom  of  the  thunder. 

Through    Sandwich  notch   the  west- 
wind  sang 

Good  morrow  to  the  cotter  ; 
And  once  again  Chocorua's  horn 

Of  shadow  pierced  the  water. 

Above  his  broad  lake  Ossipee, 
Once  more  the  sunshine  wearing, 

Stooped,  tracing  on  that  silver  shield 
His  grim  armorial  bearing. 

Clear  drawn  against  the  hard  blue  sky 
The  peaks  had  winter's  keenness  ; 


AMONG   THE  HILLS. 


And,  close  on  autumn's  frost,  the  vales 
Had  more  than  June's  fresh  green 
ness. 

Again  the  sodden  forest  floors 

With  golden  lights  were  checkered, 

Once  more  rejoicing  leaves  in  wind 
And  sunshine  danced  and  flickered. 

Il  was  as  if  the  summer's  late 

Atoning  for  its  sadness 
Had  borrowed  every  season's  charm 

To  end  its  days  in  gladness. 

I  call  to  mind  those  banded  vales 

Of  shadow  and  of  shining, 
Through  which,  my  hostess  at  my  side, 

I  drove  in  day's  declining. 

We  held  our  sideling  way  above 

The  river's  whitening  shallows, 
By    homesteads  old,   with  wide-flung 

barns 

Swept  through  and  through  by  swal 
lows,  — 

By  maple  orchards,  belts  of  pine 
And  larches  climbing  darkly 

The  mountain  slopes,  and,  over  all, 
The  great  peaks  rising  starkly. 

You  should  have  seen  that  long  hill- 
range 

With  gaps  of  brightness  riven,  — 
How   through   each   pass   and   hollow 

streamed 
The  purpling  lights  of  heaven, — 

Rivers  of  gold-mist  flowing  down 
From  far  celestial  fountains,  — 

The  great  pun  flaming  through  the  rifts 
Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains  ! 

We  paused  at  last  where  home-bound 
cows 

Brought  down  the  pasture's  treasure, 
And  in  the  barn  the  rhythmic  flails 

Beat  out  a  harvest  measure. 

We    heard    the    night-hawk's    sullen 

plunge, 

The  crow  his  tree-mates  calling  : 
The   shadows    lengthening   down    the 

slopes 
About  our  feet  were  falling. 


And  through  them  smote  the  level  sun 
In  broken  lines  of  splendor, 

Touched  the  gray  rocks  and  made  the 

green 
Of  the  shorn  grass  more  tender. 

The  maples  bending  o'er  the  gate, 
Their  arch  of  leaves  just  tinted 

With  yellow  warmth,  the  golden  glow 
Of  coming  autumn  hinted. 

Keen  white   between   the   farm  house 
showed, 

And  smiled  on  porch  and  trellis, 
The  fair  democracy  of  flowers 

That  equals  cot  and  palace. 

And  weaving  garlands  for  her  dog, 
'Twixt  chidings  and  caresses, 

A  human  flower  of  childhood  shook 
The  sunshine  from  her  tresses. 

On  either  hand  we  saw  the  signs 
Of  fancy  and  of  shrewdness, 

Where  taste  had  wound  its  arms  of 

vines 
Round  thrift's  uncomely  rudeness. 

The  sun-brown  farmer  in  his  frock 
Shook  hands,  and  called  to  Mary : 

Bare-armed,  as  Juno  might,  she  came, 
White-aproned  from  her  dairy. 

Her  air,  her  smile,  her  motions,  told 
Of  womanly  completeness  ; 

A  music  as  of  household  songs 
Was  in  her  voice  of  sweetness. 

Not  beautiful  in  curve  and  line, 
But  something  more  and  better, 

The  secret  charm  eluding  art, 
Its  spirit,  not  its  letter  ;  — 

An  inborn  grace  that  nothing  lacked 

Of  culture  or  appliance,  — 
The  warmth  of  genial  courtesy, 

The  calm  of  self-reliance. 

Before  her  queenly  womanhood 
How  dared  our  hostess  utter 

The  paltry  errand  of  her  need 
To  buy  her  fresh-churned  butter? 

She  led  the  way  with  housewife  pride, 
Her  goodly  store  disclosing, 


AMONG   THE  HILLS. 


403 


Full  tenderly  the  golden  balls 
With  practised  hands  disposing. 

Then,  while  along  the  western  hills 
We  watctied  the  changeful  giory 

Of  sunset,  on  our  homeward  way, 
I  heard  her  simple  story. 

The  early  crickets  sang ;  the  stream 
Plashed  through  my  friend's  narra 
tion  : 

Her  rustic  patois  of  the  hills 
Lost  in  my  free  translation. 

"  More  wise,"  she  said,  "than  those 
who  swarm 

Our  hills  in  middle  summer, 
She  came,  when  June's  first  1'oses  blow, 

To  greet  the  early  comer. 

"  From  school  and  ball  and  rout  she 
came, 

The  city's  fair,  pale  daughter, 
To  drink  the  wine  of  mountain  air 

Beside  the  Bearcamp  Water. 

*f  Her  step  grew  firmer  on  the  hills 
That  watch  our  homesteads  over  ; 

On  cheek  and  lip.  from  summer  fields, 
She  caught  the  bloom  of  clover. 

"  For  health  comes  sparkling  in   the 
streams 

From  cool  Chocorna  stealing : 
There  's  iron  in  our  Northern  winds  ; 

Our  pines  are  trees  of  healing. 

"  She  sat  beneath  the  broad-armed  elms 
That  skirt  the  mowing-meadow, 

And    watched    the    gentle    west-wind 

weave 
The  grass  with  shine  and  shadow. 

"  Beside  her,  from  the  summer  heat 
To  share  her  grateful  screening, 

With  forehead  bared,  the  farmer  stood, 
Upon  his  pitchfork  leaning. 

"  Framed  in  its  damp,  dark  locks,  his 
face 

Had  nothing  mean  or  common,  — 
Strong,  manly,  true,  the  tenderness 

And  pride  beloved  of  woman. 


"  She    looked  up,   glowing  with    the 
health 

The  country  air  had  brought  her, 
And,  laughing,  said  :  '  You  lack  a  wife, 

Your  mother  lacks  a  daughter. 

"  '  To  mend  your  frock  and  bake  your 
bread 

You  do  not  need  a  lady  : 
Be  sure  among  these  brown  old  homes 

Is  some  one  waiting  ready,  — 

"  '  Some  fair, sweet  girl  with  skilful  hand 
And  cheerful  heart  for  treasure, 

Who  never  played  with  ivory  keys, 
Or  danced  the  polka's  measure.' 

"  He  bent  his  black  brows  to  a  frown, 
He  set  his  white  teeth  tightly. 

1  'T  is  well,'  he  said,  '  for  one  like  you 
To  choose  for  me  so  lightly. 

"  'You  think,  because  my  life  is  rude 
I  take  no  note  of  sweetness  : 

I  tell  you  love  has  naught  to  do 
With  meetness  or  unmeetness. 

"  '  Itself  its  best  excuse,  it  asks 
No  leave  of  pride  or  fashion 

When  silken  zone  or  homespun  frock 
It  stirs  with  throbs  of  passion. 

"  '  You  think  me  deaf  and  blind  :  you 
bring 

Your  winning  graces  hither 
As  free  as  if  from  cradle-time 

We  two  had  played  together. 

"  '  You  tempt  me  with   your  laughing 
eyes. 

Your  cheek  of  sundown's  blushes, 
A  motion  as  of  waving  grain, 

A  music  as  of  thrushes. 

"  '  The  plaything  of  your  summer  sport, 
The  spells  you  weave  around  me 

You  cannot  at  your  will  undo, 
Nor  leave  me  as  you  found  me. 

•"  '  You  go  as  lightly  as  you  came, 
Your  life  is  well  without  me  ; 

What  care  you  that  these  hills  will  close 
Like  prison-walls  about  me  ? 


4°4 


AMONG   THE  PULLS. 


"  '  No  mood  is  mine  to  seek  a  wife, 
Or  daughter  for  my  mother  : 

Who  loves  you  loses  in  that  love 
All  power  to  love  another  ! 

"  '  I  dare  your  pity  or  your  scorn, 
With  pride  your  own  exceeding  ; 

I  fling  my  heart  into  your  lap 
Without  a  word  of  pleading.' 

"  She  looked  up  in  his  face  of  pain 

So  archly,  yet  so  tender  : 
'  And  if  I  lend  you  mine,'  she  said, 

'  Will  you  forgive  the  lender  ? 

"  '  Nor  frock  nor  tan  can  hide  the  man  ; 

And  see  you  not,  my  farmer, 
How  weak  and  fond  a  woman  waits 

Behind  this  silken  armor  ? 

;<  '  I  love  you  :  on  that  love  alone, 
And  not  my  worth,  presuming, 

Will  you  not  trust  for  summer  fruit 
The  tree  in  May-day  blooming? ' 

"  Alone  the  hangbird  overhead, 
His  hair-swung  cradle  straining, 

Looked  down  to  see  love's  miracle,  — 
The  giving  that  is  gaining. 

"  And  so  the  farmer  found  a  wife, 
His  mother  found  a  daughter  : 

There  looks  no  happier  home  than  hers 
On  pleasant  Bearcamp  Water. 

"  Flowers  spring  to  blossom  where  she 
walks 

The  careful  ways  of  duty  ; 
Our  hard,  stiff  lines  of  life  with  her 

Are  flowing  curves  of  beauty. 

"  Our  homes  are  cheerier  for  her  sake, 
Our  door-yards  brighter  blooming, 

And  all  about  the  social  air 
Is  sweeter  for  her  coming. 

"  Unspoken  homilies  of  peace 
Her  daily  life  is  preaching  ; 

The  still  refreshment  of  the  dew 
Js  her  unconscious  teaching. 

"  And  never  tenderer  hand  than  hers 
Unknits  the  brow  of  ailing  : 

Her  garments  to  the  sick  man's  ear 
Have  music  in  their  trailing. 


"  And  when,  in  pleasant  harvest  moons, 
The  youthful  huskers  gather, 

Or  sleigh-drives  on  the  mountain  ways 
Defy  the  winter  weather,  — 

"  In    sugar-camps,    when    south    and 
warm 

The  winds  of  March  are  blowing, 
And  sweetly  from  its  thawing  veins 

The  maple's  blood  is  flowing,  — 

"  In  summer,  where  some  lilied  pond 

Its  virgin  zone  is  bearing, 
Or  where  the  ruddy  autumn  fire 

Lights  up  the  apple-paring,  — 


"  Her  presence  lends  its  warmth  and 
health 

To  all  who  come  before  it. 
If  woman  lost  us  Eden,  such 

As  she  alone  restore  it. 

"  For  larger  life  and  wiser  aims 

The  farmer  is  her  debtor  ; 
Who  holds  to  his  another's  heart 

Must  needs  be  worse  or  better. 

"  Through  her  his  civic  service  shows 

A  purer-toned  ambition  ; 
No  double  consciousness  divides 

The  man  and  politician. 

"  In  party's  doubtful  ways  he  trusts 
Her  instincts  to  determine  ; 

At  the  loud  polls,  the  thought  of  her 
Recalls  Christ's  Mountain  Sermon. 

"  He  owns  her  logic  of  the  heart, 

And  wisdom  of  unreason, 
Supplying,  while  he  doubts  and  weighs, 

The  needed  word  in  season. 

"  He    sees    with    pride     her    richer 
thought, 

Her  fancy's  freer  ranges  ; 
And  love  thus  deepened  to  respect 

Is  proof  against  all  changes. 

"  And  if  she  walks  at  ease  in  ways 
His  fact  are  slow  to  travel, 


AMONG   THE  HILLS. 


405 


And  if  she  reads  with  cultured  eyes 
What  his  may  scarce  unravel, 

"  Still  clearer,  for  her  keener  sight 

Of  beauty  and  of  wonder, 
He  learns  the  meaning  of  the  hills 

He  dwelt  from  childhood  under. 

"  And   higher,  warmed  with  summer 
lights, 

Or  winter-crowned  and  hoary, 
The  ridged  horizon  lifts  for  him 

Its  inner  veils  of  glory. 

"  He  has  his  own  free,  bookless  lore, 
The  lessons  nature  taught  him, 

The  wisdom  which  the  woods  and  hills 
And  toiling  men  have  brought  him  : 

"  The  steady  force  of  will  whereby 
Her  flexile  grace  seems  sweeter  ; 

The  sturdy  counterpoise  which  makes 
Her  woman's  life  completer  : 

"  A  latent  fire  of  soul  which  lacks 
No  breath  of  love  to  fan  it  ; 

And  wit,  that,  like  his  native  brooks, 
Plays  over  solid  granite. 

"  How  dwarfed  against  his  manliness 
She  sees  the  poor  pretension, 

The  wants,  the  aims,  the  follies,  born 
Of  fashion  and  convention  ! 

"  How  life  behind  its  accidents  > 
Stands  strong  and  self-sustaining, 

The  human  fact  transcending  all 
The  losing  and  the  gaining. 

"  And  so,  in  grateful  interchange 

Of  teacher  and  of  hearer, 
Their  lives  their  true  distinctness  keep 

While  daily  drawing  nearer. 

"  And  if  the  husband  or  the  wife 
In  home's  strong  light  discovers 

Such  slight  defaults  as  failed  to  meet 
The  blinded  eyes  of  lovers, 

"Why  need  we  care  to  ask?  —  who 
dreams 

Without  their  thorns  of  roses, 
Or  wonders  that  the  truest  steel 

The  readiest  spark  discloses  ? 


"  For  still  in  mutual  sufferance  lies 

The  secret  of  true  living  : 
Love  scarce  is  love  that  never  knows 

The  sweetness  of  forgiving. 

"  We  send  the  Squire  to  General  Court, 
He  takes  his  young  wife  thither  ; 

No  prouder  man  election  day 
Rides     through     the     sweet     June 
weather. 

"  He  sees  with  eyes  of  manly  trust 

All  hearts  to  her  inclining  ; 
Not  less  for  him  his  household  light 

That  others  share  its  shining." 

Thus,  while  my  hostess  spake,  there 
grew 

Before  me,  warmer  tinted 
And  outlined  with  a  tenderer  grace 

The  picture  that  she  hinted. 

The  sunset  smouldered  as  we  drove 
Beneath  the  deep  hill-shadows. 

Below  us  wreaths  of  white  fog  walked 
Like  ghosts  the  haunted  meadows. 

Sounding  the  summer  night,  the  stars 
Dropped  down  their  golden   plum 
mets  ; 

The  pale  arc  of  the  Northern  lights 
Rose  o'er  the  mountain  summits,  — 

Until,  at  last,  beneath  its  bridge, 
We  heard  the  Bearcamp  flowing, 

And  saw  across  the  mapled  lawn 
The    welcome     home-lights    glow 
ing  ;  — 

And,  musing  on  the  tale  I  heard, 
'T  were  well,  thought  I,  if  often 

To  rugged  farm-life  came  the  gift 
To  harmonize  and  soften  ;  — 

If  more  and  more  we  found  the  troth 

Of  fact  and  fancy  plighted, 
And    culture's     charm      and     labor's 
strength 

In  rural  homes  united,  — 

The  simple  life,  the  homely  hearth, 
With  beauty's  sphere  surrounding, 

And  blessing  toil  where  toil  abounds 
Writh  graces  more  abounding. 


4o6 


AMONG   THE  HILLS. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  CLEAR  VISION. 

I  DID  but  dream.     I  never  knew 
What  charms    our  sternest   season 

wore. 
Was  never  yet  the  sky  so  blue, 

Was  never  earth  so  white  before. 
Till  now  I  never  saw  the  glow 
Of  sunset  on  yon  hills  of  snow, 
And  never  learned  the  bough's  designs 
Of  beauty  in  its  leafless  lines. 

Did  ever  such  a  morning  break 

As  that  my  eastern  windows  see  ? 
Did  ever  such  a  moonlight  take 

Weird    photographs    of   shrub    and 

tree  ? 

Rang  ever  bells  so  wild  and  fleet 
The  music  of  the  winter  street? 
Was  ever  yet  a  sound  by  half 
So  merry  as  yon  school-boy's  laugh  ? 

O  Earth  !  with  gladness  overfraught. 

No  added  charm  thy  face  hath  found  ; 
Within  my  heart  the  change  is  wrought, 

My  footsteps  make  enchanted  ground. 
From  couch  of  pain  and  curtained  room 
Forth  to  thy  light  and  air  I  come, 
To  find  in  all  that  meets  my  eyes 
The  freshness  of  a  glad  surprise. 

Fair  seem  these  winter  days,  and  soon 
Shall  blow  the  warm  west  winds  of 

spring 
To  set  the  unbound  rills  in  tune, 

And  hither  urge  the  bluebird's  wing. 
The  vales  shall  laugh  in  flowers,  the 

woods 

Grow  misty  green  with  leafing  buds, 
And  violets  and  wind-flowers  sway 
Against  the  throbbing  heart  of  May. 

Break  forth,  my  lips,  in  praise,  and  own 
The  wiser  love  severely  kind  ; 

Since,  richer  for  its  chastening  grown, 
I  see,  whereas  I  once  was  blind. 

The  world,  O  Father  !  hath  not  wronged 

With  loss  the  life  by  thee  prolonged  ; 


But  still,  with  every  added  year, 
More  beautiful  thy  works  appear  ! 

As  thou  hast  made  thy  world  without, 
Make  thou  more  fair  my  world  with 
in  ; 
Shine  through  its  lingering  clouds  of 

doubt ; 

^Rebuke  its  haunting  shapes  of  sin  ; 
Fill,  brief  or  long,  my  granted  span 
Of  life  with  love  to  thee  and  man  ; 
Strike  when  thou  wilt  the  hour  of  rest, 
But  let  my  last  days  be  my  best  I 
2d  Month,  1868. 


THE  DOLE  OF  JARL  THOK- 
KELL. 

THE  land  was  pale  with  famine 
And  racked  with  fever-pain  ; 

The  frozen  fiords  were  fish  less, 
The  earth  withheld  her  grain. 

Men  saw  the  boding  Fylgja 

Before  them  come  and  go, 
And,  through  their  dreams,  the  Urda** 
moon 

From  west  to  east  sailed  slow  I 

Jarl  Thorkell  of  Thevera 
At  Yule-time  made  his  vow; 

On  Rykdal's  holy  Doom-stone 
He  slew  to  Frey  his  cow. 

To  bounteous  Frey  he  slew  her  ; 

To  Skuld,  the  younger  Norn, 
Who  watches  over  birth  and  death, 

He  gave  her  calf  unborn. 

And  his  little  gold-haired  daughter 
Took  up  the  sprinkling-rod, 

And  smeared  with  blood  the  temple 
And  the  wide  lips  of  the  god. 

Hoarse  below,  the  winter  water 

Ground  its  ice-blocks  o'er  and  o'er  ; 

Jets  of  foam,  like  ghosts  of  dead  waves, 
Rose  and  fell  along  the  shore. 


THE  DOLE   OF  JARL    THORKELL. 


407 


The  red  torch  of  the  Jokul, 

Aloft  in  icy  space, 
Shone  down  on  the  bloody  Horg-stones 

And  the  statue's  carven  face. 

And  closer  round  and  grimmer 

Beneath  its  baleful  light 
The  Jotun  shapes  of  mountains 

Came  crowding  through  the  night. 

The  gray-haired  Hersir  trembled 
As  a  flame  by  wind  is  blown  ; 

A  weird  power  moved  his  white  lips, 
And  their  voice  was  not  his  own  ! 

"  The  J£s\r  thirst !  "  he  muttered  ; 

"  The  gods  must  have  more  blood 
Before  the  tun  s^i.ll  blossom 

Or  fish  shall  fu-  the  flood. 

''  The  JEsir  tHrst  and  hunger, 
And  hence  our  blight  and  ban  ; 

The  mouths  of  the  strong  gods  water 
For  the  flesh  and  blood  of  man  ! 

"  Whom  shall  we  give  the  strong  ones? 

Not  warriors,  sword  on  thigh  ; 
But  let  the  nursling  infant 

And  bedrid  old  man  die." 

"  So  be  it  !  "  cried  the  young  men, 
"  There  needs  nor  doubt  nor  parle  "  ; 

But,  knitting  hard  his  red  brows, 
In  silence  stood  the  Jarl. 

A  sound  of  woman's  weeping 
At  the  temple  door  was  heard, 

But   the  old  men   bowed   their  white 

heads, 
And  answered  not  a  word. 

Then  the  Dream-wife  of  Thingvalla, 

A  Vaia  yeur-g  ?.r.d  fair, 
Sang  softly,  stirring  with  U«r  breath 

The  veil  of  her  loose  hair. 

She  sang  :  "  The  winds  from  Alf  heim 
Bring  never  sound  of  strife  ; 

The  gifts  for  Frey  the  meetest 
Are  not  of  death,  but  life. 

"  He  loves  the  grass-green  meadows, 
The  grazing  kine's  sweet  breath  ; 

He  loathes  your  bloody  Horg-stones, 
Your  gilts  that  smell  of  death. 


"  No  wrong  by  wrong  is  righted, 

No  pain  is  cured  by  pain  ; 
The  blood  that  smokes   from  Doom- 
rings 

Falls  back  in  redder  rain. 

"  The  gods  are  what  you  make  them, 
As  earth  shall  Asgard  prove  ; 

And  hate  will  come  of  hating, 
And  love  will  come  of  love. 

"  Make  dole  of  skyr  and  black  bread 
That  old  and  young  may  live  ; 

And  look  to  Frey  for  favor 
When  first  like  Frey  you  give. 

"  Even  now  o'er  Njord's  sea-meadows 
The  summer  dawn  begins  ; 

The  tun  shall  have  its  harvest, 
The  fiord  its  glancing  fins." 

Then  up  and  swore  Jarl  Thorkell : 

"  By  Gimli  and  by  Hel, 
O  Vala  of  Thingvalla, 

Thou  singest  wise  and  well  I 

"  Too  dear  the  ./Esir's  favors 

Bought  with  our  children's  lives  ; 

Better  die  than  shame  in  living 
Our  mothers  and  our  wives. 

"  The  full  shall  give  his  portion 
To  him  who  hath  most  need  ; 

Of  curdled  skyr  and  black  bread, 
Be  daily  dole  decreed." 

He  broke  from  off  his  neck-chain 
Three  links  of  beaten  gold  ; 

And  each  man,  at  his  bidding, 
Brought  gifts  for  young  and  old. 

Then  mothers  nursed  their  children, 
And  daughters  fed  their  sires, 

And  Health  sat  clown  with  Plenty 
Before  the  next  Yule  fires. 

The  Horg-stones  stand  in  Rykdal ; 

The  Doom-ring  still  remains  ; 
But  the  snows  of  a  thousand  winters 

Have  washed  away  the  stains. 

Christ  ruleth  now  ;  the  TEsir 
Have  found  their  twilight  dim  ; 

And,  wiser  than  she  dreamed,  of  old 
The  Vala  sang  of  Him  1 


4o8  AMONG   THE  HILLS. 

THE  TWO  RABBIS. 


THE  Rabbi  Nathan,   twoscore    years 

and  ten, 
Walked    blameless    through    the   evil 

world,  and  then, 
Just  as  the  almond  blossomed  in  his 

hair, 
Met   a  temptation   all   too   strong   to 

bear, 
And    miserably    sinned.      So,    adding 

not 
Falsehood  to  guilt,  he  left  his  seat,  and 

taught 
No  more  among  the  elders,  but  went 

out 

From  the  great  congregation  girt  about 
With  sackcloth,  and  with  ashes  on  his 

head, 
Making  his  gray  locks  grayer.     Long 

he  prayed, 
Smiting  his  breast ;  then,  as  the  Book 

he  laid 
Open  before  him  for  the   Bath-Col's 

choice, 
Pausing  to  hear  that   Daughter  of  a 

Voice, 
Behold  the  royal    preacher's  words  : 

"  A  friend 

Loveth  at  all  times,  yea,  unto  the  end  ; 
And  for  the  evil  day  thy  brother  lives." 
Marvelling,  he  said  :  "  It  is  the  Lord 

who  gives 

Counsel  in  need.     At  Ecbatana  dwells 
Rabbi  Ben  Isaac,  who  all  men  excels 
In  righteousness  and  wisdom,  as  the 

trees 
Of  Lebanon  the  small  weeds  that  the 

bees 
Bow  with  their  weight.     I  will  arise, 

and  lay 
My  sins  before  him." 

And  he  went  his  way 
Barefooted,   fasting  long,   with   many 

prayers ; 

But   even   as  one  who,  followed  un 
awares, 

Suddenly  in  the  darkness  feels  a  hand 
Thrill  with  its  touch  his  own,  and  his 

cheek  fanned 

By  odors  subtly  sweet,  and  whispers 
near 


Of  words  he  loathes,  yet  cannot  choose 

but  hear, 

So,  while  the  Rabbi  journeyed,  chant 
ing  low 

The  wail  of  David's  penitential  woe, 
Before    him   still   the   old   temptation 

came, 
And  mocked  him  with  the  motion  and 

the  shame 
Of  such  desires  that,  shuddering,  he 

abhorred 
Himself;  and,  crying  mightily  to  the 

Lord 
To  free  his  soul  and  cast  the  demon 

out, 
Smote  with    his  staff   the    blankness 

round  about. 

At  length,  in  the  low  light  of  a  spent 

day, 

The  towers  of  Ecbatana  far  away 
Rose  on  the  desert's  rim  ;  and  Nathan, 

faint 
And  footsore,  pausing  where  for  some 

dead  saint 
The  faith   of   Islam  reared  a  domed 

tomb, 
Saw  some  one  kneeling  in  the  shadow, 

whom 
He  greeted  kindly  :   "  May  the  Holy 

One 
Answer    thy    prayers,    O    stranger ! " 

Whereupon 
The  shape   stood  up  with  a  loud  cry, 

and  then, 
Clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  the  two 

gray  men 
Wept,  praising   Him  whose   gracious 

providence 

Made  their  paths  one.     But  straight 
way,  as  the  sense 

Of  his  transgression  smote  him,  Na 
than  tore 
Himself  away:  "O  friend  beloved,  no 

more 
Worthy  am   I   to    touch    thee,   for   I 

came, 
Foul  from  my  sins,  to  tell  thee  all  my 

shame. 
Haply  thy  prayers,  since  naught  avail- 

eth  mine, 
May  purge  my  soul,  and  make  it  white 

like  thine. 
Pity  me,  O  Ben  Isaac,  I  have  sinned  I M 


THE  MEETING. 


409 


Awestruck  Ben  Isaac  stood.  The  des 
ert  wind 

Blew  his  long  mantle  backward,  laying 
bare 

The  mournful  secret  of  his  shirt  of 
hair. 

"  I  too,  O  friend,  if  not  in  act,"  he 
said, 

"  In  thought  have  verily  sinned.  Hast 
thou  not  read, 

'  Better  the  eye  should  see  than  that 
desire 

Should  wander  ?  '  Burning  with  a  hid 
den  fire 

That  tears  and  prayers  quench  not,  I 
come  to  thee 

For  pity  and  for  help,  as  thou  to  me. 

Pray  for  me,  O  my  friend  !  "  But  Na 
than  cried, 

"  Pray  thou  for  me,  Ben  Isaac  !  " 

Side  by  side 

In  the  low  sunshine  by  the  turban 
stone 

They  knelt ;  each  made  his  brother's 
woe  his  own, 

Forgetting,  in  the  agony  and  stress 

Of  pitying  love,  his  claim  of  selfish 
ness  ; 

Peace,  for  his  friend  besought,  his  own 
became ; 

His  prayers  were  answered  in  another's 
name  ; 

And,  when  at  last  they  rose  up  to  em 
brace, 

Each  saw  God's  pardon  in  his  broth 
er's  face  ! 

Long  after,  when  his  headstone  gath 
ered  moss, 
Traced  on  the   targum-marge  of  On- 

kelos 
In  Rabbi  Nathan's  hand  these  words 

were  read  : 
"  Hope  not  the  cure  of  sin  till  Self 

is  dead ; 
Forget  it  in   lovers  service,   and  the 

debt 
Thou  canst  not  pay  the  angels  shall 

forget ; 
Heaven^s  gate   is  shut  to   him  ivho 

comes  alone  ; 
Save  thou  a  soul,  and  it  shall  save  thy 

own  !  " 


THE  MEETING. 

THE  elder  folk  shook  hands  at  last, 
Down  seat  by  seat  the  signal  passed. 
To  simple  ways  like  ours  unused, 
Half  solemnized  and  half  amused, 
With  long-drawn  breath  and  shrug,  my 

guest 

His  sense  of  glad  relief  expressed. 
Outside  the  hills  lay  warm  in  sun  ; 
The  cattle  in  the  meadow-run 
Stood  half-leg  deep  ;  a  single  bird 
The  green  repose  above  us  stirred. 
"  What  part  or  lot  have  you,"  he  said, 
"  In  these  dull  rites  of  drowsy-head  ? 
Is  silence  worship  ?     Seek  it  where 
It  soothes  with  dreams  the  summer  air, 
Not  in  this  close  and  rude-benched  hall, 
But  where  soft  lights  and  shadows  fall, 
And  all  the  slow,  sleep-walking  hours 
Glide  soundless  overgrass  and  flowers  ! 
From  time  and  place  and  form  apart, 
Its  holy  ground  the  human  heart, 
Nor  ritual-bound  nor  templeward 
Walks  the  free  spirit  of  the  Lord  ! 
Our  common  Master  did  not  pen 
His  followers  up  from  other  men  ; 
His  service  liberty  indeed, 
He   built   no   church,    he   framed    no 

creed ; 

But  while  the  saintly  Pharisee 
Made  broader  his  phylactery, 
As  from  the  synagogue  was  seen 
The  dusty-sandalled  Nazarene 
Through  ripening  cornfields   lead  ih& 

way 

Upon  the  awful  Sabbath  day, 
His  sermons  were  the  healthful  talk 
That  shorter  made  the  mountain-walk, 
His   wayside   texts   were   flowers   and 

birds, 
Where    mingled    with     His    gracious 

words 

The  rustle  of  the  tamarisk-tree 
And  ripple-wash  of  Galilee." 

"Thy  words  are   well,    O   friend,"    I 

said  ; 

"  Unmeasured  and  unlimited, 
With  noiseless  slide  of  stone  to  stone, 
The  mystic  Church  of  God  has  grown. 
Invisible  and  silent  stands 
The  temple  never  made  with  hands, 
Unheard  the  voices  still  and  small 


AMONG   THE  HILLS. 


Of  its  unseen  confessional. 
He  needs  no  special  place  of  prayer 
Whose;  hearing  car  is  everywhere  ; 
He  brings  not  back  the  childish  days 
That  ringed  the  earth  with  stones   of 


praise, 

Roofed  Karnak's  hall  of  gods,  and  laid 
The  plinths  of  Phikt's  colonnade. 
.Still  less  He  owns  the  selfish  good 
And  sickly  growth  of  solitude,  — 
The  worthless  grace  that,  out  of  sight. 
Flowi-rs  in  the  desert  anchorite  ; 
Dissevered  from  the  suffering  whole, 
Love  hath  no  power  to  save  a  soul. 
Not  out  of  Self,  the  origin 
And  native  air  and  soil  of  sin, 
The  living  waters  spring  and  flow, 
The  trees  with  leaves  of  healing  grow. 

"  Dream  not,  O  friend,  because  I  seek 

This  quiet  shelter  twice  a  week, 

I  better  deem  its  pine-laid  floor 

Than  bree/.y  hill  or  sea-sung  shore  ; 

]>ut  nature  is  not  solitude  : 

She    crowds    us  with    her    thronging 

wood  ; 

Her  many  hands  reach  out  to  us, 
Her  many  tongues  are  garrulous; 
Perpetual  riddles  of  surprise 
She  offers  to  our  ears  and  eyes  ; 
She  will  not  leave  our  senses  still, 
Hut  drags  them  captive  at  her  will  : 
And,  making  earth  too  great  for  heaven, 
She  hides  the  Giver  in  the  given. 

"  And  so,  T  find  it  well  to  come 
For  deeper  rest  to  this  still  room, 
For  here  the  habit  of  the  soul 
Feels  less  the  outer  world's  control  ; 
The  strength  of  mutual  purpose  pleads 
More  earnestly  our  common  needs; 
And  from  the  silence  multiplied 
I3y  these  still  forms  on  either  side, 
The  world  that  time  and  sense   have 

known 
Falls  off  and  leaves  us  God  alone. 

"  Yet  rarely  through  the  charmed  re 

pose 

Unmixed  the  stream  of  motive  flows, 
A  flavor  of  its  many  springs, 
The  tints  of  earth  and  sky  it  brings  ; 
In  the  still  waters  needs  must  be 
Some  shade  of  human  sympathy  ; 


And  here,  in  its  accustomed  place, 
I  look  on  memory's  dearest  face; 
The  blind  by-sitter  guesseth  not 
What  shadow  haunts  that  vacant  spot; 
No  eyes  save  mine  alone  can  see 
The  love  wherewith  it  welcomes  me  1 
And  still,  with  those  alone  my  kin, 
In  doubt  and  weakness,  want  and  sin, 
I  bow  my  head,  my  heart  1  bare 
As  when  that  face  was  living  there, 
And  strive  (too  oft,  alas  !  in  vain) 
The  peace  of  simple  trust  to  gain, 
Fold  fancy's  restless  win^s,  and  lay 
The  idols  of  my  heart  away. 

"  Welcome  the  silence  all  unbroken, 
Nor  1«ss  the  words  of  fitness  spoken,  — 
Such  golden  words  as  hers  for  whom 
Our  autumn   flowers  have  just  made 

room  ; 
Whose  hopeful  utterance  through  and 

through 

The  freshness  of  the  morning  blew  ; 
Who  loved  not  less  the  earth  that  light 
Fell  on  it  from  the  heavens  in  sight, 
Hut  saw  in  all  fair  forms  more  fair 
The  Eternal  beauty  mirrored  there. 
Whose  eighty  years  but  added  grace 
And  saintlier  meaning  to  her  face, — 
The  look  of  one  who  bore  away 
Glad  tidings  from  the  hills  of  day, 
While  all  our  hearts  went  forth  to  meet 
The  coming  of  her  beautiful  feet  ! 
Or  haply  hers,  whose  pilgrim  tread 
Is  in  the  paths  where  Jesus  led  ; 
Who  dreams  her  childhood's  sabbath 

dream 

By  Jordan's  willow-shaded  stream, 
And,  of  the  hymns  of  hope  and  faith, 
Sung  by  the  monks  of  Nnzareth, 
Hears  pious  echoes,  in  the  call 
To  prayer,  from  Moslem  minarets  fall, 
Repeating     where     His    works    wera 

wrought 

The  lesson  that  her  Master  taught, 
Of  whom  an  elder  Sibyl  gave, 
The  prophecies  of  Cumae's  cave  1 

"  I  ask  no  organ's  soulless  breath 

To  drone  the  themes  of  life  and  death, 

No  altar  candle-lit  by  day, 

No  ornate  wordsman's  rhetoric-play, 

No  cool  philosophy  to  teach 

Its  bland  audacities  of  speech 


THE  MEETING. 


To  doubled-tasked  idolators 
Themselves   their  gods  and  worship 
pers, 

No  pulpit  hammered  by  the  fist 
Of  loud-asserting  dogmatist, 
Who  borrows  tor  tin;  hand  of  love 
The  smoking  thunderbolts  of  Jove. 
1  know  how  well  the  fathers  taught, 
What     work     the     later     schoolmen 

wrought ; 

'f  reverence  old-time  faith  and  men, 
But  God  is  near  us  now  as  then  ; 
His  force  of  love  is  still  unspent, 
liis  hate  of  sin  as  imminent ; 
And  still  the  measure  of  our  needs 
Outgrows    the    cramping    bounds    of 

creeds  ; 

The  manna  gathered  yesterday 
Already  savors  of  decay  ; 
Doubts  to  the  world's  child-heart  un 
known 

Question  us  now  from  star  and  stone  ; 
oo  little  or  too  t.iuch  we  know, 
And  sight  is  swift  and  faith  is  slow  ; 
The  power  is  lost  to  self-deceive 
With  shallow  forms  of  make-believe. 
We  walk  at  high  noon,  and  the  bells 
Call  to  a  thousand  oracles, 
But  the  sound  deafens,  and  the  light 
Is  stronger  than  our  dazzled  sight ; 
The  letters  of  the  sacred  Book 
( rlimmeT  and  swim  beneath  our  look  ; 
Still  struggles  in  the  Age's  breast 
With  deepening  agony  of  quest 
The  old  entreaty  :  '  Art  thou  He, 
Of  look  we  for  the  Christ  to  be?' 

"  God  should  be   most  where  man  is 

least : 

So,  where  is  neither  church  nor  priest, 
And  never  rag  of  form  or  creed 
To  clothe  the  nakedness  of  need,  — 
Where  farmer-folk  in  silence  meet,  — 
I  turn  my  bell-unsummoned  feet ; 
I  lay  the  critic's  glass  aside, 
I  tread  upon  my  lettered  pride, 
And,  lowest-seated,  testifv 
To  the  oneness  of  humanity  ; 
Confess  the  universal  want, 
And  share  wh.itever  1 1  p. wen  may  grant. 
He  findeth  not  who  seeks  his  own, 
The  soul  i.,  lost  that  's  saved  alone. 
Not  on  one  fwoird  forehead  fell 
Of  old  the  fire-tODgued  miracle,  • 


But  flamed  o'er  all  the  thronging  host 
The  baptism  of  the  Holy  Ghost  ; 
Heart  answers  heart  :   in  one  desire 
The  blending  lines  of  prayer  aspire  ; 
'  Where,    in    my    name,    meet    two  or 

three,' 
Our  Lord  hath  said,  '  I  there  will  be  !' 

"  So  sometimes  comes  to  soul  and  sense 
The  feeling  which  is  evidence 
That  very  near  about  us  lies 
The  realm  of  spiritual  mysteries. 
The  sphere  of  the  supernal  powers 
lmpinv.es  on  this  world  of  ours. 
The  low  and  dark  hori/.on  lifts, 
To  light  the  scenic  terror  shifts; 
The  breath  of  a  diviner  air 
Blows  down  the  answer  of  a  prayer:  — 
That  all  our  sorrow,  pain,  and  doubt 
A  great  compassion  clasps  about, 
And  law  and  goodness,  love  and  force, 
Arc  wedded  fast  beyond  divorce. 
Then  duty  leaves  to  love  its  task, 
The  beggar  Self  forgets  to  ask  ; 
With  smile  of  trust  and  folded  hands, 
The  passive  soul  in  waiting  stands 
To  feel,  as  llowers  the  sun  and  dew, 
The  One  true  Lite  its  own  renew. 

"  So,  to  the  calmly  gathered  thought 
The  innermost  of  truth  is  taught, 
The  mystery  dimly  understood, 
That  love  of  God  is  love  of  good, 
And,  chiefly,  its  divinest  trace 
In  Him  of  Nazareth's  holy  face; 
That  to  be  saved  is  only  this, — 
Salvation  from  our  selfishness, 
From  more  than  elemental  fire, 
The  soul's  unsanctified  desire, 
From  sin  itself,  and  not  the  pain 
That  warns  us  of  its  chafing  chain  ; 
That  worship's  deeper  meaning  lies 
In  mercy,  and  not  sacrifice, 
Not  proud  humilities  of  sense 
And  posturing  of  penitence, 
I'.ui  love's  unforced  obedience  : 
That   I'.ook  and  Church  and   Day  are 

given 
For   man,   not    God,  —  for   earth,    not 

heaven, — 

The  blessed  means  to  holiest  ends, 
N'M!  masters,  but  benignant  friends; 
That  the  dear  Christ  dwells  not  afar, 
The  king  of  some  remoter  star, 


AMONG   THE  HILLS. 


Listening,  at  times,  with  flattered  ear 
To  homage  wrung  from  selfish  fear, 
But  here,  amidst  the  poor  and  blind, 
The  bound  and  suffering  of  our  kind, 
In  works  we  do,  in  prayers  we  pray, 
Life  of  our  life,  he  lives  to-day." 


THE  ANSWER. 

SPARE  me,  dread  angel  of  reproof, 
And  let  the  srnshine  weave  to-day 

Its  gold-threads  in  the  warp  and  woof 
Of  life  so  poor  and  gray. 

Spare  me  awhile  ;  the  flesh  is  weak. 

These  lingering  feet,  that  fain  would 

stray 
Among  the  flowers,  shall  some  day  seek 

The  strait  and  narrow  way. 

Take  off  thy  ever-watchful  eye, 
The  awe  of  thy  rebuking  frown  ; 

The  dullest  slave  at  times  must  sigh 
To  fling  his  burdens  down  ; 

To  drop  his  galley's  straining  oar, 
And  press,  in  summer  warmth  and 
calm, 

The  lap  of  some  enchanted  shore 
Of  blossom  and  of  balm. 

Grudge  not  my  life  its  hour  of  bloom, 
My  heart  its  taste  of  long  desire  ; 

This  day  be  mine  :  be  those  to  come 
As  duty  shall  require. 

The  deep  voice  answered  to  my  own, 
Smiting  my  selfish  prayers  away  ; 

"To-morrow  is  with  God  alone, 
And  man  hath  but  to-day. 

"  Say  not,  thy  fond,  vain  heart  within, 
The  Father's  arms  shall  still  be  wide, 

When  from  these  pleasant  ways  of  sin 
Thou  turn'st  at  eventide. 

"  '  Cast   thyself   down,'    the    tempter 

saith, 
*  And  angels  shall  thy  feet  upbear.' 


He  bids  thee  make  a  lie  of  faith, 
And  blrsphemy  of  prayer. 

"  Though   God  be  good  and  free  be 
Heaven, 

No  force  divine  can  love  compel  ; 
And,  though  the  song  of  sins  forgiven 

May  sound  through  lowest  hell, 

"  The  sweet  persuasion  of  His  voice 
Respects  thy  sanctity  of  will. 

He  giveth  day  :  thou  hast  thy  choice 
To  walk  in  darkness  still  ; 

"  As  one  who,  turning  from  the  light, 
Watches  his  own  gray  shadow  fall, 

Doubting,  upon  his  path  of  night, 
If  there  be  day  at  all ! 

"  No  word  of  doom  may  shut  thee  out, 
No  wind   of  wrath   may  downward 
whirl, 

No  swords  of  fire  keep  watch  about 
The  open  gates  of  pearl  ; 

"  A  tenderer  light  than  moon  or  sun, 
Than  song  of  earth  a  sweeter  hymn, 

May  shine  and  sound  forever  on, 
And  thou  be  deaf  and  dim. 

"  Forever  round  the  Mercy-seat 
The  guiding  lightsof  Love  shall  burn  ; 

But  what  if,  habit-bound,  thy  feet 
Shall  lack  the  will  to  turn  ? 

"  What  if  thine  eye  refuse  to  see, 
Thine  ear  of  Heaven's  free  welcome 
fail, 

And  thou  a  willing  captive  be, 
Thyself  thy  own  dark  jail  ? 

"  O  doom  beyond  the  saddest  guess, 
As  the  long  years  of  God  unroll 

To  make  thy  dreary  selfishness 
The  prison  of  a  soul  ! 

"  To  doubt  the  love  that  fain  would 
break 

The  fetters  from  thy  self-bound  limb ; 
And  dream  that  God  can  thee  forsake 

As  thou  forsakest  him  ! " 


FREEDOM  IN  BRAZIL. 


G.  L.  S. 

HE  has  done  the  work  of  a  true  man,  — 
Crown  him,  honor  him,  love  him. 

Weep  ever  him,  tears  of  woman, 
Stoop  manliest  brows  above  him  ! 

O  dusky  mothers  and  daughters, 
Vigils  of  mourning  keep  for  him  ! 

Up  in  the  mountains,  and  down  by  the 

waters, 
Lift  up  your  voices  and  weep  for  him  ! 

For  the  warmest  of  hearts  is  frozen, 
The  freest  of  hands  is  still  ; 

And  the  gap  in  our  picked  and  chosen 
The  long  years  may  not  fill. 

No  duty  could  overtask  him, 

No  need  his  will  outrun  ; 
Or  ever  our  lips  could  ask  him, 

His  hands  the  work  had  done. 

He  forgot  his  own  soul  for  others, 
Himself  to  his  neighbor  lending  ; 

He   found  the   Lord  in   his   suffering 

brothers, 
And  not  in  the  clouds  descending. 

So  the  bed  was  sweet  to  die  on, 

Whence  he  saw  the  doors  wide  swung 

Against  whose  bolted  iron 

The  strength  of  his  life  was  flung. 

And  he  saw  ere  his  eye  was  darkened 
The  sheaves  of  the  harvest-bringing, 

And  knew  while  his  ear  yet  hearkened 
The  voice  of  the  reapers  singing. 

Ah,  well !  —  The  world  is  discreet ; 

There  are  plenty  to  pause  and  wait ; 
But  here  was  a  man  who  set  his  feet 

Sometimes  in  advance  of  fate,  — 

Plucked   off   the   old  bark   when   the 
inner 

Was  slow  to  renew  it, 
And  put  to  the  Lord's  work  the  sinner 

When  saints  failed  to  do  it. 

Never  rode  to  the  wrong's  redressing 

A  worthier  paladin. 
Shall  he  not  hear  the  blessing, 

"  Good  and  faithful,  enter  in  I  " 


FREEDOM  IN  BRAZIL. 

WITH  clearer  light,  Cross  of  the  South, 

shine  forth 

In  blue  Brazilian  skies  ; 
And  thou,   O  river,  cleaving  half  the 

earth 

From  sunset  to  sunrise, 
From  the  great  mountains  to  the  At 
lantic  waves 

Thy  joy's  long  anthem  pour. 
Yet  a  few  days  (God  make  them  less  !) 

and  slaves 

Shall  shame  thy  pride  no  more. 
No  fettered  feet   thy  shaded  margins 

press ; 

But  all  men  shall  walk  free 
Where  thou,  the  high-priest  of  the  wilt 

derness, 
Hast  wedded  sea  to  sea. 

And  thou,  great-hearted  ruler,  through 

whose  mouth  _ 
The  word  of  God  is  said, 
Once  more,  "  Let  there  be  light !  "  — 

Son  of  the  South, 
Lift  up  thy  honored  head, 
Wear  unashamed  a  crown  by  thy  desert 

More  than  by  birth  thy  own, 
Careless  of  watch  and  ward  ;  thou  art 

begirt 

By  grateful  hearts  alone. 
The  moated  wall  and  battle-ship  may 

fail, 

But  safe  shall  justice  prove  ; 
Stronger  than  greaves  of  brass  or  iron 

mail 
The  panoply  of  love. 

Crowned  doubly  by  man's  blessing  and 

God's  grace, 
Thy  future  is  secure  ; 
Who  frees  a  people  makes  his  statue's 

place 

In  Time's  Valhalla  sure. 
Lo  !   from  his  Neva's  banks  the  Scy 
thian  Czar 

Stretches  to  thee  his  hand 
Who,  with  the  pencil  of  the  Northern 

star, 

Wrote  freedom  on  his  land. 
And   he  whose   grave   is   holy  by  our 

calm 
And  prairied  Sangamon, 


AMONG    THE  HILLS. 


From  his  gaunt  hand  shall  drop  the 

martyr's  palm 
To  greet  thee  with  "  Well  done  !  " 

And  thou,   O   Earth,  with  smiles  thy 

face  make  sweet, 
And  let  thy  wail  be  stilled, 
To  hear  the  Muse  of  prophecy  repeat 

Her  promise  half  fulfilled 
The    Voice   that   spake    at    Nazareth 

speaks  still, 

No  sound  thereof  hath  died  ; 
Alike  thy  hope  and   Heaven's  eternal 

will 

Shall  yet  be  satisfied. 
The  years  are  slow,  the  vision  tarrieth 

long, 

And  far  the  end  may  be  : 
But,  one  by  one,  the  fiends  of  ancient 

wrong 
Go  out  and  leave  thee  free. 


DIVINE  COMPASSION. 

LONG  since,  a  dream  of  heaven  I  had, 
And  still  the  vision  haunts  me  oft  ; 

I  see  the  saints  in  white  robes  clad, 
The  martyrs  with  their  palms  aloft ; 

But  hearing  still,  in  middle  song, 
The  ceaseless  dissonance  of  wrong  ; 

And  shrinking,  with  hid  faces,  from  the 
strain 

Of  sad,  beseeching  eyes,  full  of  remorse 
and  pain. 

The  glad  song  falters  to  a  wail, 
The  harping  sinks  to  kv.v  lament  ; 

Before  the  still  uplifted  veil 

I  see  the  crowned  foreheads  bent, 

Making  more  sweet  the  heavenly  air, 
With  breathings  of  unselfish  prayer  ; 

And  a  Voice  saith  :  "  O  Pity  which  is 
pain, 

O  Love  that  weeps,  fill  up  my  suffer 
ings  which  remain  ! 

"  Shall  souls  redeemed  by  me  refuse 
To  share  my  sorrow  in  their  turn  ? 

Or,  sin-forgiven,  my  gift  abuse 
Of  peace  with  selfish  unconcern  ? 

Has  saintly  ease  no  pitying  care  ? 
Has    faith    no   work,    and    love   no 
prayer  ? 


J    While  sin  remains,  and  souls  in  dark 
ness^ 

Can  heaven  itself  be  heaven,  and  look 
unmoved  on  hell  ?  " 

Then   through  the   Gates  of  Pain,   I 

dream, 

A  wind  of  heaven  blows  coolly  in  ; 
Fainter  the  awful  discords  seem, 
The  smoke  of  torment  grows  more 

thin, 
Tears   quench  the    burning  soil,  and 

thence 

Spring  sweet,  pale  flowers  of  peni 
tence  ; 
And  through  the  dreary  realm  of  man's 

despair, 

Star-crowned  an  angel  walks,  and  lo  ! 
God's  hope  is  there  ! 

Is  it  a  dream  ?     Is  heaven  so  high 
That  pity  cannot  breathe  its  air  ? 

Its  happy  eyes  forever  dry, 
Its  holy  lips  without  a  prayer  ! 

My  God  !  my  God  !  if  thither  led 
By  thy  free  grace  unmerited, 

No  crown  nor  palm  be  mine,  but  let 
me  keep 

A  heart  that  still  can   feel,   and  eyes 
that  still  can  weep. 


LINES  ON  A  FLY-LEAF. 

I  NEED  not  ask  thee,  for  my  sake 

To  read  a  book  which  well  may  make 

Its  way  by  native  force  of  wit 

Without  my  manual  sign  to  it. 

Its  piquant  writer  needs  from  me 

No  gravely  masculine  guaranty, 

And  well   might    laugh    her  merriest 

laugh 

At  broken  spears  in  her  behalf; 
Yet,  spite  of  all  the  critics  tell, 
I  frankly  own  I  like  her  well. 
It  may  be  that  she  wields  a  pen 
Too  sharply  nibbed   for   thin-skinned 

men, 

That  her  keen  arrows  search  and  try 
The  armor  joints  of  dignity, 
And,  though  alone  for  error  meant, 
Sing  through  the  air  irreverent. 
I  blame  her  not,  the  young  athlete 


HYMN. 


4*5 


Who  plants  her  woman's  tiny  feet, 
And  dares  the  chances  of  debate 
Where  bearded  men  might  hesitate, 
Who,  deeply  earnest,  see.ng  well 
The  lud^/ous  and  laughable, 
Mingling  in  eloquent  excess 
Her  anger  and  her  tenderness, 
And,  chiding  with  a  half-caress, ' 
Strives,  leb_  for  her  own  sex  than  ours, 
With  principalities  and  powers, 
And  points  us  upward  to  the  clear 
Sunned  heights  of  her  new  atmosphere. 

Heaven  mend  her  faults  !  —  I  will  not 

pause 

To  weigh  and  doubt  and  peck  at  flaws, 
Or  waste  my  pity  when  some  fool 
Provokes  her  measureless  ridicule. 
Strong-minded  is  she  ?     Better  so 
Than  dulness  set  for  sale  or  show, 
A  household  folly,  capped  and  belled 
In  fashion's  dance  of  puppets  held, 
Or  poor  pretence  of  womanhood, 
Whose  formal,  flavorless  platitude 
Is  warranted  from  all  offence 
Of  robust  meaning's  violence. 
Give  me   the  wine  of  thought  whose 

bead 

Sparkles  along  the  page  I  read. 
Electric  words  in  which  I  find 
The  tonic  of  the  northwest  wind,  — 
The  wisdom  which  itself  allies 
To  sweet  and  pure  humanities, 
Where   scorn    of   meanness,    hate   of 

wrong, 

Are  underlaid  by  love  as  strong  ; 
The  genial  play  of  mirth  that  lights 
Grave  themes  of  thought,  as,  when  on 

nights 

Of  summer-time,  the  harmless  blaze 
Of  thunderless  heat-lightning  plays, 
And  tree  and  hill-top  resting  dim 
And  doubtful  on  the  sky's  vague  rim, 
Touched    by  that    soft    and    lambent 

gleam, 
Start  sharply  outlined  from  their  dream. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  woman's  sphere, 
Nor  point  with  Scripture  texts  a  sneer, 
Nor  wrong  the  manliest  saint  of  all 
By  doubt,  if  he  were  here,  ihr.t  Paul 
Would  own  the  heroines  who  have  lent 
Grace  to  truth's  stern  arbitrament, 
Foregone  the  praise  to  woman  sweet, 


And  cast  their  crowns  at  Duty's  feet  ; 
Like  her,  who  by  her  strong  Appeal 
Made  Fashion  weep  and  Mammon  feel, 
Who,  earliest  summoned  to  withstand 
The  color-madness  of  the  land, 
Counted  her  life-long  losses  gain, 
And  made  her  o\vn  her  sisters'  pain  ; 
Or  her  who,  in  her  greenwood  shade, 
Heard   the   sharp   call   that    Freedom 

made, 
And,  answering,  struck  from  Sappho's 

lyre 

Of  love  the  Tyrtsean  carmen's  fire  : 
Or  that  young  girl,  —  Domremy's  maid 
Revived  a  nobler  cause  to  aid,  — 
Shaking  from  warning  finger-tips 
The  doom  of  her  apocalypse  ; 
Or  her,  who  world-wide  entrance  gave 
To  the  log-cabin  of  the  slave, 
Made  all  his  want  and  sorrow  known, 
And  all  earth's  languages  his  own. 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  HOUSE  OF  WORSHIP  AT 
GEORGETOWN. 

ERECTED  IN  MEMORY  OP  A  MOTHER. 

THOU  dwellest  not,  O  Lord  of  all ! 

In  temples  which  thy  children  raise  ; 
Our  work  to  thine  is  mean  and  small, 
And  brief  to  thy  eternal  days. 

Forgive  the  weakness  and  the  pride, 
If  marred  thereby  our  gift  may  be, 

For  love,  at  least,  has  sanctified 
The  altar  that  we  rear  to  thee. 

The  heart  and  not  the  hand  has  wrought 
From  sunken  base  to  tower  above 

The  image  of  a  tender  thought, 
The  memory  of  a  deathless  love  ! 

And   though   should   never   sound   oi 
speech 

Or  organ  echo  from  its  wall, 
Its  stones  would  pious  lessons  teach, 

Its  shade  in  benedictions  fall. 

Here   should   the   dove   of  peace    ba 

found, 
And  blessings  and  not  curses  given  ; 


4i6 


AMONG   THE  HILLS. 


Nor  strife  profane,  nor  hatred  wound, 
The  mingled  loves  of  earth  and  heav 
en. 

Thou,    who    didst   soothe  with    dying 

breath 
The  dear  one  watching  by  thy  cross, 


Forgetful  of  the  pains  of  death 
In  sorrow  for  her  mighty  loss, 

In  memory  of  that  tender  claim, 
O  Mother-born,  the  offering  take, 

And  make  it  worthy  of  thy  name, 
And  bless  it  for  a  mother's  sake  I 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


NOTE  i,  page  3. 

MOGG  MEGONE,  or  Hegpne,  was  a 
leader  among  the  Saco  Indians,  in  the 
bloody  war  of  1677.  He  attacked  and 
captured  the  garrison  at  Black  Point, 
October  i2th  of  that  year  ;  and  cut  off, 
at  the  same  time,  a  party  of  English 
men  near  Saco  River.  From  a  deed 
signed  by  this  Indian  in  1664,  and 
from  other  circumstances,  it  seems 
that,  previous  to  the  war,  he  had  min 
gled  much  with  the  colonists.  On  this 
account,  he  was  probably  selected  by 
the  principal  sachems  as  their  agent 
in  the  treaty  signed  in  November, 
1676. 

NOTE  2,  page  3. 

Baron  de  St.  Castine  came  to  Canada 
in  1644.  Leaving  his  civilized  compan 
ions,  he  plunged  into  the  great  wilder 
ness  and  settled  among  the  Penobscot 
Indians,  near  the  mouth  of  their  noble 
river.  He  here  took  for  his  wives  the 
daughters  of  the  great  Modocawan- 
do,  —  the  most  powerful  sachem  of  the 
East.  His  castle  was  plundered  by 
Governor  Andros,  during  his  reckless 
administration  ;  and  the  enraged  Baron 
is  supposed  to  have  excited  the  Indi 
ans  into  open  hostility  to  the  English. 

NOTE  3,  page  4. 

The  owner  and  commander  of  the 
garrison  at  Black  Point,  which  Mogg 
attacked  and  plundered.  He  was  an 
old  man  at  the  period  to  which  the  tale 
relates. 

NOTE  4,  page  4. 

Major  Phillips,  one  of  the  principal 


men  of  the  Colony.  His  garrison  sus 
tained  a  long  and  terrible  siege  by  the 
savages.  As  a  magistrate  and  a  gentle 
man,  he  exacted  of  his  plebeian  neigh 
bors  a  remarkable  degree  of  deference. 
The  Court  Records  of  the  settlement 
inform  us  that  an  individual  was  fined 
for  the  heinous  offence  of  saying  that 
"  Major  Phillips's  mare  was  as  lean,  as 
an  Indian  dog." 

NOTE  5,  page  4. 

Captain  Harmon,  of  Georgeana,  now 
York,  was,  for  many  years,  the  terror 
of  the  Eastern  Indians.  In  one  of  his 
expeditions  up  the  Kennebec  River,  at 
the  head  of  a  party  of  rangers,  he  dis 
covered  twenty  of  the  savages  asleep 
by  a  large  fire.  Cautiously  creeping 
towards  them  until  he  was  certain  of 
his  aim,  he  ordered  his  men  to  single 
out  their  objects.  The  first  discharge 
killed  or  mortally  wounded  the  whole 
number  of  the  unconscious  sleepers. 

NOTE  6,  page  4. 

Wood  Island,  near  the  mouth  of  the 
Saco.  It  was  visited  by  the  Sieur  de 
Monts  and  Champlain,  in  1603.  The 
following  extract,  from  the  journal  of 
the  latter,  relates  to  it :  "  Having  left 
the  Kennebec,  we  ran  along  the  coast 
to  the  westward,  and  cast  anchor  under 
a  small  island,  near  the  main-land, 
were  we  saw  twenty  or  more  natives. 
I  here  visited  an  island,  beautifully 
clothed  with  a  fine  growth  of  forest 
trees,  particularly  of  the  oak  and  wal-" 
nut ;  and  overspread  with  vines,  that, 
in  their  season,  produce  excellent 


NOTES. 


Ba< 


ipes.  We  named  it  the  island  of 
iacchus."  —  Les  Voyages  de  Sieur 
liainplain,)  Liv.  2,  c.  8. 

NOTE  7,  page  4. 

John  Bonython  was  the  son  of  Rich 
ard  Bonython,  Gent.,  one  of  the  most 
efficient  and  able  magistrates  of  the 
Colony.  John  prored  to  be  "  a  degen 
erate  plant."  In  1635,  we  find,  by  the 
Court  Records,  that,  for  some  offence, 
he  was  fined  40^.  In  1640,  he  was 
fined  for  abuse  toward  R.  Gibson,  the 
minister,  and  Mary  his  wife.  Soon 
after  he  was  fined  for  disorderly  con 
duct  in  the  house  of  his  father.  In 


(Court  Records  of  the  Province,  1645.) 
In  1651,  he  bade  defiance  to  the  laws 
of  Massachusetts,  and  was  again  out 
lawed.  He  acted  independently  of  all 
law  and  authority ;  and  hence,  doubt 
less,  his  burlesque  title  of  "The  Saga 
more  of  Saco,"  which  has  come  down 
to  the  present  generation  in  the  follow 
ing  epitaph :  — 

"  Here  lies  Bonython  ;  the  Sagamore 

of  Saco, 

He  lived  a  rogue,  and  died  a  knave, 
and  went  to  Hobomoko." 

By  some  means  or  other,  he  obtained 
a  large  estate.  In  this  poem,  I  have 
taken  some  liberties  with  him,  nq^ 
strictly  warranted  by  historical  facts; 
although  the  conduct  imputed  to  him  is 
in  keeping  with  his  general  character. 
Over  the  last  years  of  his  life  lingers  a 
deep  obscurity.  Even  the  manner  of 
his  death  is  uncertain.  He  was  sup 
posed  to  have  been  killed  by  the  In 
dians  ;  but  this  is  doubted  by  the  able 
and  indefatigable  author  of  the  His 
tory  of  Saco  and  Biddeford.  —  Part  I. 
p.  115. 

NOTE  8,  page  4. 

Foxwell's  Brook  flows  from  a  marsh 
or  bog,  called  the  "Heath,"  in  Saco, 
containing  thirteen  hundred  acres.  On 
this  brook,  and  surrounded  by  wild  and 


romantic  scenery,  is  a  beautiful  water 
fall,  of  more  than  sixty  feet. 

NOTE  9,  page  5. 

Hiacoomes,  the  first  Christian 
preacher  on  Martha's  Vineyard ;  for  a 
biography  of  whom  the  reader  is  re 
ferred  to  Increase  Mayhew's  account 
of  the  Praying  Indians,  1726.  The 
following  is  related  of  him  :  "  One 
Lord's  day,  after  meeting,  where  Hia 
coomes  had  been  preaching,  there  came 
in  a  Powwaw  very  angry,  and  said,  '  I 
know  all  the  meeting  Indians  are  liars. 
You  say  you  don't  care  for  the  Pow- 
waws  '  ;  —  then  calling  two  or  three  of 
them  by  name,  he  railed  at  them,  and 
told  them  they  were  deceived,  for  the 
Powwaws  could  kill  all  the  meeting 
Indians,  if  they  set  about  it.  But  Hia 
coomes  told  him  that  he  would  be  in 
the  midst  of  all  the  Powwaws  in  the 
island,  and  they  should  do  the  utmost 
they  could  against  him  ;  and  when 
they  should  do  their  worst  by  their 
witchcraft  to  kill  him,  he  would  with 
out  fear  set  himself  against  them,  by 
remembering  Jehovah.  He  told  them 
also  he  did  put  all  the  Powwaws  under 
his  heel.  Such  was  the  faith  of  this 
good  man.  Nor  were  these  Powwaws 
ever  able  to  do  these  Christian  Indians 
any  hurt,  though  others  were  frecuently 
hurt  and  killed  by  them."  — May  hew, 
pp.  6,  7,  c.  i. 

NOTE  10,  page  7. 

"  The  tooth-ache,"  says  Roger  Wil 
liams  in  his  observations  upon  the 
language  and  customs  of  the  New  Eng 
land  tribes,  "is  the  only  paine  which  will 
force  their  stoute  hearts  to  cry."  He 
afterwards  remarks  that  even  the  In 
dian  women  never  cry  as  he  has  heard 
"  some  of  their  men  in  this  paine." 

NOTE  u,  page  7. 

Wutta-midtata,  "Let  us  drink." 
Weekan,  "It  is  sweet."  Vide  Roger 
Williams's  Key  to  the  Indian  Lan 
guage,  "  in  that  parte  of  America  called 
New  England."  London,  1643,  p.  35. 


NOTES. 


421 


NOTE  12,  page  8. 

Wetuomanit,  —  a  house  god,  or  de 
mon.  "They  —  the  Indians — have 
given  me  the  names  of  thirty-seven 
gods,  which  I  have,  all  which  in  their 
solemne  Worships  they  invocate ! " 
R.  Williams's  Briefe  Observations  of 
the  Customs,  Manners,  Worships,  &c., 
of  the  Natives,  in  Peace  and  Warre, 
in  Life  and  Death  :  on  all  which  is 
added  Spiritual  Observations,  General 
and  Particular,  of  Chiefe  and  Special 
use  —  upon  all  occasions  —  to  all  the 
English  inhabiting  these  parts ;  yet 
Pleasant  and  Profitable  to  the  view  of 
all  Mene.  —  p.  no,  c.  21. 

NOTE  13,  page  10. 

Mt.  Desert  Island,  the  Bald  Moun 
tain  upon  which  overlooks  French 
man's  and  Penobscot  Bay.  It  was 
upon  this  island  that  the  Jesuits  made 
their  earliest  settlement. 

NOTE  14,  page  n. 

Father  Hennepin,  a  missionary 
among  the  Iroquois,  mentions  that  the 
Indians  believed  him  to  be  a  conjurer, 
and  that  they  were  particularly  afraid 
of  a  bright  silver  chalice  which  he  had 
in  his  possession.  "The  Indians," 
says  Pere  Jerome  Lallamant,  "  fear  us 
as  the  greatest  sorcerers  on  earth." 

NOTE  15,  page  n. 

Bomazecm  is  spoken  of  by  Penhal- 
low,  as  "the  famous  warrior  and  chief 
tain  of  Norridgewock."  He  was  killed 
in  the  attack  of  the  English  upon  Nor 
ridgewock,  ia  1724. 

NOTE  16,  page  n. 

Pere   Ralle,  or  Rasles,  was  one  of 

the  most  zealous  and  indefatigable  of 
that  band  of  Jesuit  missionaries  who, 
at  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  penetrated  the  forests  of  Amer 
ica,  with  the  avowed  object  of  convert 
ing  the  heathen.  The  first  religious 
mission  of  the  Jesuits,  to  the  savages  in 
North  America,  was  in  161 1.  The  zeal 


of  the  fathers  for  the  conversion  of  the 
Indians  to  the  Catholic  faith  knew  no 
bounds.  For  this,  they  plunged  into 
the  depths  of  the  wilderness ;  habitu 
ated  themselves  to  all  the  hardships  and 
privations  of  the  natives  ;  suffered  cold, 
hunger,  and  some  of  them  death  itself, 
by  the  extremest  tortures.  Pere  Bre- 
beuf,  after  laboring  in  the  cause  of  his 
mission  for  twenty  years,  together  with 
his  companion,  Pere  Lallamant,  was 
burned  alive.  To  these  might  be  add 
ed  the  names  of  those  Jesuits  who  were 
put  to  death  by  the  Iroquois,  —  Daniel, 
Gamier,  Buteaux,  La  Riborerde,  Gou- 
pil,  Constantin,  and  Liegeouis.  "  For 
bed,"  says  Father  Lallamant,  in  his 
Relation  de  ce  qui  s'est  dans  le  pays 
dcs  Ifurons,  1640,  c.  3,  "we  have  noth 
ing  but  a  miserable  piece  of  bark  of  a 
tree  ;  for  nourishment,  a  handful  or  two 
of  corn,  either  roasted  or  soaked  in 
water,  which  seldom  satisfies  our  hun 
ger  ;  and  after  all,  not  venturing  to 
perform  even  the  ceremonies  of  our 
religion,  without  being  considered  as 
sorcerers."  Their  success  among  the 
natives,  however,  by  no  means  equalled 
their  exertions.  Pere  Lallamant  says  : 
"  With  respect  to  adult  persons,  in 
good  health,  there  is  little  apparent 
success  ;  on  the  contrary,  there  have 
been  nothing  but  storms  and  whirl 
winds  from  that  quarter." 

Sebastian  Ralle  established  himself, 
some  time  about  the  year  1670,  at  Nor 
ridgewock,  where  he  continued  more 
than  forty  years.  He  was  accused,  and 
perhaps  not  without  justice,  of  exciting 
his  praying  Indians  against  the  English, 
whom  he  looked  upon  as  the  enemies 
not  only  of  his  king,  but  also  of  the 
Catholic  religion.  He  was  killed  by 
the  English,  in  1724,  at  the  foot  of  the 
cross  which  his  own  hands  had  plant 
ed.  This  Indian  church  was  broken 
up,  and  its  members  either  killed  out 
right  or  dispersed. 

In  a  letter  written  by  Ralle  to  his 
nephew  he  gives  the  following  account 
of  his  church,  and  his  own  labors  : 
"All  my  converts  repair  to  the  church 
regularly  twice  every  day ;  first,  very 
early  in  the  morning,  to  attend  mass, 


NOTES. 


and  again  in  the  evening,  to  assist  in 
the  prayers  at  sunset.  As  it  is  neces 
sary  to  fix  the  imagination  of  savages, 
whose  attention  is  easily  distracted,  I 
have  composed  prayers,  calculated  to 
inspire  them  with  just  sentiments  of 
the  august  sacrifice  of  our  altars  :  they 
chant,  or  at  least  recite  them  aloud, 
during  mass.  Besides  preaching  to 
them  on  Sundays  and  saints'  days,  I 
seldom  let  a  working-day  pass,  without 
making  a  concise  exhortation,  for  the 
purpose  of  inspiring  them  with  horror 
at  those  vices  to  which  they  are  most 
addicted,  or  to  confirm  them  in  the 
practice  of  some  particular  virtue." 
Vide  Lettres  Edifiantes  et  Cur.,  Vol. 
VI.  p.  127. 

NOTE  17,  page  15. 

The  character  of  Ralle  has  probably 
never  been  correctly  delineated.  By 
his  brethren  of  the  Romish  Church,  he 
has  been  nearly  apotheosized.  On  the 
other  hand,  our  Puritan  historians  have 
represented  him  as  a  demon  in  human 
form.  He  was  undoubtedly  sincere  in 
his  devotion  to  the  interests  of  his 
church,  and  not  over-scrupulous  as  to 
the  means  of  advancing  those  interests. 
"The  French,"  says  the  author  of  the 
History  of  Saco  and  Biddeford,  "after 
the  peace  of  1713,  secretly  promised  to 
supply  the  Indians  with  arms  and  am 
munition,  if  they  would  renew  hostili 
ties.  Their  principal  agent  was  the 
celebrated  Ralle,  the  French  Jesuit." 
—  p.  215. 

NOTE  1 8,  page  16. 

Hertel  de  Rouville  was  an  active  and 
unsparing  enemy  of  the  English.  He 
was  the  leader  of  the  combined  French 
and  Indian  forces  which  destroyed 
peerfield  and  massacred  its  inhab 
itants,  in  1703.  He  was  afterwards 
killed  in  the  attack  upon  Hayerhill. 
Tradition  says  that,  on  examining  his 
dead  body,  his  head  and  face  were 
found  to  be  perfectly  smooth,  without 
the  slightest  appearance  of  hair  or 
beard. 


NOTE  19,  page  16. 

Coiuesass  ?  —  tawhich  tvessaseen  ? 
Are  you  afraid?  —  why  fear  you? 

NOTE  20,  page  23. 

Winnepurkit,  otherwise  called 
George,  Sachem  of  Saugus,  married  a 
daughter  of  Passaconavvay,  the  great 
Pennacook  chieftain,  in  1662.  The 
wedding  took  place  at  Pennacook  (now 
Concord,  N.  H.),  and  the  ceremonies 
closed  with  a  great  feast.  According 
to  the  usages  of  the  chiefs,  Passacon- 
away  ordered  a  select  number  of  his 
men  to  accompany  the  newly-married 
couple  to  the  dwelling  of  the  husband, 
where  in  turn  there  was  another  great 
feast.  Some  time  after,  the  wife  of 
Winnepurkit  expressing  a  desire  to 
visit  her  father's  house,  was  permitted 
to  go,  accompanied  by  a  brave  escort  of 
her  husband's  chief  men.  But  when 
she  wished  to  return,  her  father  sent  a 
messenger  to  Saugus,  informing  her 
husband,  and  asking  him  to  come  and 
take  her  away.  He  returned  for  an 
swer  that  he  had  escorted  his  wife  to 
her  father's  house  in  a  style  that  be 
came  a  chief,  and  that  now  if  she 
wished  to  return,  her  father  must  send 
her  back  in  the  same  way.  This  Pas- 
saconaway  refused  to  do,  and  it  is  said 
that  here  terminated  the  connection  of 
his  daughter  with  the  Saugus  chief. — 
Vide  Morton's  New  Canaan. 

NOTE  21,  page  26. 

This  was  the  name  which  the  Indians 
of  New  England  gave  to  two  or  three 
of  their  principal  chiefs,  to  whom  all 
their  inferior  sagamores  acknowledged 
allegiance.  Passaconaway  seems  to 
have  been  one  of  these  chiefs.  His 
residence  was  at  Pennacook.  (Mass. 
Hist.  Coll.,  Vol.  III.  pp.  21,  22.)  "  He 
was  regarded,"  says  Hubbard,  "as  a 
great  sorcerer,  and  his  fame  was  widely 
spread.  It  was  said  of  him  that  he 
could  cause  a  green  leaf  to  grow  in 
winter,  trees  to  dance,  water  to  burn, 
&c.  He  was,  undoubtedly,  one  of 
those  shrewd  and  powerful  men  whose 


NOTES. 


423 


achievements  are  always  regarded  by  a 
barbarous  people  as  the  result  of  super 
natural  aid.  The  Indians  gave  to  such 
the  names  of  Powahs  or  Panisees." 

"  The  Panisees  are  men  of  great 
courage  and  wisdom,  and  to  these  the 
Dcvill  appeareth  more  familiarly  than 
to  others."  —  Winsloiv's  Relation. 

NOTE  22,  page  28. 

"The  Indians,"  says  Roger  Wil 
liams,  "have  a  god  whom  they  call 
Wetuomanit,  who  presides  over  the 
household." 

NOTE  23,  page  30. 

There  are  rocks  in  the  river  at  the 
Falls  of  Ampskeag,  in  the  cavities  of 
which,  tradition  says,  the  Indians  for 
merly  stored  and  concealed  their  corn. 

NOTE  24,  page  32. 

The  Spring  God.  —  See  Roger  Wil- 
li^ns's  Key,  &c. 

NOTE  25,  page  34. 

"  Mat  wonck  kunna-monee."  We 
shall  see  thee  or  her  no  more.  —  Vide 
Roger  IV imams' s  Key  to  the  In 
dian  Language. 

NOTE  26,  page  34. 

"The  Great  South  West  God."  — 
See  Roger  Williams' s  Observa 
tions^  &c. 

NOTE  27,  page  37. 

The  celebrated  Captain  Smith,  after 
resigning  the  government  of  the  Colony 
in  Virginia,  in  his  capacity  of  "Admi 
ral  of  New  England,"  made  a  careful 
survey  of  the  coast  from  Penobscot  to 
Cape  Cod,  in  the  summer  of  1614. 

NOTE  28,  page  37. 

Lake  Winnipiseogee,  —  The  Smile 
cf  the  Great  Spirit,  —  the  source  of 
one  of  the  branches  of  the  Merrimack. 


NOTE  29,  page  37. 

Captain  Smith  gave  to  the  promon 
tory,  now  called  Cape  Ann,  the  name  of 
Tragabizanda,  in  memory  of  his  young 
and  beautiful  mistress  of  that  name, 
who,  while  he  was  a  captive  at  Con 
stantinople,  like  Desdemona,  "loved 
him  for  the  dangers  he  had  passed." 

NOTE  30,  page  38. 

Some  three  or  four  years  since,  a 
fragment  of  a  statue,  rudely  chiselled 
from  dark  gray  stone,  was  found  in  the 
town  of  Bradford,  on  the  Merrimack. 
Its  origin  must  be  left  entirely  to  con 
jecture.  The  fact  that  the  ancient 
Northmen  visited  New  England,  some 
centuries  before  the  discoveries  of 
Columbus,  is  now  very  generally  ad 
mitted. 

NOTE  31,  page  48. 

De  Soto,  in  the  sixteenth  century, 
penetrated  into  the  wilds  of  the  new 
world  in  search  of  gold  and  the  foun 
tain  of  perpetual  youth. 

NOTE  32,  page  57. 

TOUSSAINT  L'OuvERTURE,  the  black 
chieftain  of  Hayti,  was  a  slave  on  tho 
plantation  "de  Libertas,"  belonging  to 
M.  BAYOU.  When  the  rising  of  the 
negroes  took  place,  in  1791,  TOUSSAINT 
Defused  to  join  them  until  he  had  aided 
M.  BAYOU  and  his  family  to  escape  to 
Baltimore.  The  white  man  had  dis 
covered  in  Toussaint  many  noble  quali 
ties,  and  had  instructed  him  in  some  of 
the  first  branches  of  education  ;  and  the 
preservation  of  his  life  was  owing  to 
the  negro's  gratitude  for  this  kindness. 

In  1797,  Toussaint  L'Ouverture  was 
appointed,  by  the  French  government, 
General-in-Chief  of  the  armies  of  St. 
Domingo,  and,  as  such,  signed  the 
Convention  with  General  Maitland  for 
the  evacuation  ot  the  island  by  the 
British.  From  this  period,  until  1801, 
the  island,  under  the  government  of 
Toussaint,  was  happy,  tranquil,  and 
prosperous.  The  miserable  attempt  of 
Napoleon  to  re-establish  slavery  in  St. 
Domingo,  although  it  failed  of  its  in- 


NOTES. 


tended  object,  proved  fatal  to  the  negro 
chieftain.  Treacherously  seized  by  Le- 
clerc,  he  was  hurried  on  board  a  ves 
sel  by  night,  and  conveyed  to  France, 
where  he  was  confined  in  a  cold  sub 
terranean  dungeon,  at  Besan^on,  where, 
in  April,  1803,  he  died.  The  treatment 
of  Toussaint  finds  a  parallel  only  in  the 
murder  of  the  Duke  D'Enghein.  It 
was  the  remark  of  Godwin,  in  his  Lec 
tures,  that  the  West  India  Islands, 
since  their  first  discovery  by  Columbus, 
could  not  boast  of  a  single  name  which 
deserves  comparison  with  that  of  Tous 
saint  L'Ouverture. 

NOTE  33,  page  59. 

The  reader  may,  perhaps,  call  to 
mind  the  beautiful  sonnet  of  William 
Wordsworth,  addressed  to  Toussaint 
L'Ouverture,  during  his  confinement 
in  France. 
"  Toussaint  !  —  thou  most  unhappy 

man  of  men  ! 
Whether  the   whistling  rustic  tends 

his  plough 

Within  thy  hearing,  or  thou  liestnow 
Buried  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless 

den  ; 
O   miserable    chieftain  !  — where   and 

when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience?  —  Yet,  die 

not,  do  thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful 

brow ; 
Though    fallen  thyself,   never  to  rise 

again, 
Live  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left 

behind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee  ;  air, 

earth,  and  skies,  — 

There  's  not  a  breathing  of  the  com 
mon  wind 
That  will  forget  thee  :  thou  hast  great 

allies. 

Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable 
mind." 

NOTE  34,  page  59. 

The  French  ship  LE  RODEUR,  with 
a  crew  of  twenty-two  men,  and  with 
one  hundred  and  sixty  negro  slaves, 


sailed  from  Bonny,  in  Africa,  April, 
1819.  On  approaching  the  line,  a  ter 
rible  malady  broke  out,  — an  obstinate 
disease  of  the  eyes,  —  contagious,  and 
altogether  beyond  the  resources  of 
medicine.  It  was  aggravated  by  the 
scarcity  of  water  among  the  slaves 
(only  half  a  wineglass  per  day  being 
allowed  to  an  individual),  and  by  the 
extreme  impurity  of  the  air  in  which 
they  breathed.  By  the  advice  of  the 
physician,  they  were  brought  upon  deck 
occasionally ;  but  some  of  the  poo* 
wretches,  locking  themselves  in  each 
other's  arms,  leaped  overboard,  in  the 
hope,  which  so  universally  prevails 
among  them,  of  being  swiftly  trans' 
ported  to  their  own  homes  in  Africa. 
To  check  this,  the  captain  ordered  sev 
eral  who  were  stopped  in  the  attempt 
to  be  shot,  or  hanged,  before  their 
companions.  The  disease  extended  to 
the  crew ;  and  one  after  another  were 
smitten  with  it,  until  only  one  remained 
unaffected.  Yet  even  this  dreadful 
condition  did  not  preclude  calculation  : 
to  save  the  expense  of  supporting 
slaves  rendered  unsalable,  and  to  ob 
tain  grounds  for  a  claim  against  the  un 
derwriters,  thirty-six  of  the  negroes, 
having  become  blind,  were  throwri 
into  the  sea  and  drowned  ! 

In  the  midst  of  their  dreadful  fears 
lest  the  solitary  individual,  whose  sight 
remained  unaffected,  should  also  be 
seized  with  the  malady,  a  sail  was  dis 
covered.  It  was  the  Spanish  slaver, 
Leon.  The  same  disease  had  been 
there  ;  and,  horrible  to  tell,  all  the  crew 
had  become  blind  !  Unable  to  assist 
each  other,  the  vessels  parted.  The 
Spanish  ship  has  never  since  been 
heard  of.  The  Rodeur  reached  Guada- 
loupe  on  the  2ist  of  June ;  the  only 
man  who  had  escaped  the  disease,  and 
had  thus  been  enabled  to  steer  the 
slaver  into  port,  caught  it  in  three  days 
after  its  arrival. — Speech  of  M.  Benja* 
win  Constant,  in  the  French  Chamber 
of  Deputies,  June  17,  1820. 

NOTE  35,  page  79. 
The  Northern  author  of  the  Con, 


NOTES. 


425 


gressional  rule  against  receiving  peti 
tions  of  the  people  on  the  subject  of 
Slavery. 


NOTE  36,  page 


Virginia  plantations  is  performed  alto 
gether  by  a  species  of  the  human  race 
cruelly  wrested  from  their  native  coun 
try,  and  doomed  to  perpetual  bondage, 
while  their  masters  are  manfully  con 
tending  for  freedom  and  the  natural 
rights  of  man.  Such  is  the  inconsis 
tency  of  human  nature."  Eighteen 
hundred  slaves  were  found  at  York- 
town,  after  its  surrender,  and  restored 
to  their  masters.  Well  was  it  said  by 
Dr.  Barnes,  in  his  late  work  on  Slavery : 
"  No  slave  was  any  nearer  his  freedom 
after  the  surrender  of  Yorktown  than 
when  Patrick  Henry  first  taught  the 
notes  of  liberty  to  echo  among  the  hills 
and  vales  of  Virginia." 

NOTE  37,  page  96. 

The  rights  and  liberties  affirmed  by 
MAGNA  CHARTA  were  deemed  of  such 
importance,  in  the  thirteenth  century, 
that  the  Bishops,  twice  a  year,  with 
tapers  burning,  and  in  their  pontifical 
robes,  pronounced,  in  the  presence  of 
the  king  and  the  representatives  of  the 
estates  of  England,  the  greater  excom 
munication  against  the  infringer  of  that 
instrument.  The  imposing  ceremony 
took  place  in  the  great  Hall  of  West 
minster.  A  copy  of  the  curse,  as  pro 
nounced  in  1253,  declares  that,  "by 
the  authority  of  Almighty  God,  and 
the  blessed  Apostles  and  Martyrs,  and 
all  the  saints  in  heaven,  all  those  who 
violate  the  English  liberties,  and  se 
cretly  or  openly,  by  deed,  word,  or  coun 
sel,  do  make  statutes,  or  observe  them 
being  made,  against  said  liberties,  are 
accursed  and  sequestered  from  the  com 
pany  of  heaven  and  the  sacraments  of 
the  Holy  Church." 

WILLIAM  PENN,  in  his  admirable 
political  pamphlet,  "  England's  Pres 
ent  Interest  considered,"  alluding  to 


the  curse  of  the  Charter-breakers,  says: 
"  I  am  no  Roman  Catholic,  and  little 
value  their  other  curses ;  yet  I  declare 
I  would  not  for  the  world  incur  this 
curse,  as  every  man  deservedly  doth, 
who  offers  violence  to  the  fundamental 
freedom  thereby  repeated  and  con 
firmed." 

NOTE  38,  page  116. 
"  The  manner  in  which  the  Walden- 
ses  and  heretics  disseminated  their 
principles  among  the  Catholic  gentry, 
was  by  carrying  with  them  a  box  of 
trinkets,  or  articles  of  dress.  Hav 
ing  entered  the  houses  of  the  gen 
try  and  disposed  of  some  of  their  goods, 
they  cautiously  intimated  that  they  had 
commodities  far  more  valuable  than 
these,  —  inestimable  jewels,  which  they 
would  show  if  they  Could  be  protected 
from  the  clergy.  They  would  then  give 
their  purchasers  a  Bible  or  Testament ; 
and  thereby  many  were  deluded  into 
heresy."  —  7?.  Saccho. 

NOTE  39,  page  133. 

Chalkley  Hall,  near  Frankford,  Pa., 
the  residence  of  THOMAS  CHALKLEY, 
an  eminent  minister  of  the  Friends' 
denomination.  He  was  one  of  the 
early  settlers  of  the  Colony,  and  his 
Journal,  which  was  published  in  1749, 
presents  a  quaint  but  beautiful  picture 
of  a  life  of  unostentatious  and  simple 
goodness.  He  was  the  master  of  a 
merchant  vessel,  and,  in  his  visits  to 
the  West  Indies  and  Great  Britain, 
omitted  no  opportunity  to  labor  for  the 
highest  interests  of  his  fellow-men. 
During  a  temporary  residence  in  Phila 
delphia,  in  the  summer  of  1838,  the 
quiet  and  beautiful  scenery  around  the 
ancient  village  of  Frankford  frequent 
ly  attracted  me  from  the  heat  and  bus 
tle  of  the  city. 

NOTE  40,  page  137. 

August.  Sililoq.  cap.  xxxi.  "  Interro- 
gavi  Terram,"  &c. 

NOTE  41,  page  141. 
For  the  idea  of  this  line,  I   am  in- 


426 


NOTES. 


debtcd  to  Emerson,  in  his   inimitable 
sonnet  to  the  Rhodora,  — 

"  If  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  be- 


NOTE  42,  page  151. 

Among  the  earliest  converts  to  the 
doctrines  of  Friends  in  Scotland  was 
Barclay  of  Ury,  an  old  and  distin 
guished  soldier,  who  had  fought  under 
Gustavus  Adolphus,  in  Germany.  As 
a  Quaker,  he  became  the  object  of  per 
secution  and  abuse  at  the  hands  of  the 
magistrates  and  the  populace.  None 
bore  the  indignities  of  the  mob  \vitk 
greater  patience  and  nobleness  of  soul 
than  this  once  proud  gentleman  and 
jjoldier.  One  of  his  friends,  on  an  oc 
casion  of  uncommon  rudeness,  lament 
ed  that  he  should  be  treated  so  harshly 
^n  his  old  age  who  had  been  so  hon 
ored  before.  "  I  find  more  satisfac 
tion,"  said  Barclay,  "  as  well  as  honor, 
in  being  thus  insulted  for  my  religious 
principles,  than  when,  a  few  years  ago, 
it  was  usual  for  the  magistrates,  as  I 
passed  the  city  of  Aberdeen,  to  meet 
me  on  the  road  and  conduct  me  to 
public  entertainment  in  their  hall,  and 
then  escort  me  out  again,  to  gain  my 
favor." 

NOTE  43,  page  162. 

Lucy  Hooper  died  at  Brooklyn,  L.  I., 
on  the  ist  of  8th  mo.,  1841,  aged  24 
years. 

NOTE  44,  page  164. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Dr.  Channing 
was  in  the  summer  of  1841,  when,  in 
company  with  my  English  friend,  Jo 
seph  Sturge,  so  well  known  for  his 
philanthropic  labors  and  liberal  po 
litical  opinions,  I  visited  him  in  his 
summer  residence  in  Rhode  Island. 
In  recalling  the  impressions  of  that 
visit,  it  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to 
say,  that  I  have  no  reference  to  the 
peculiar  religious  opinions  of  a  man 
whose  life,  beautifully  and  truly  mani 
fested  above  the  atmosphere  of  sect, 
is  now  the  world's  common  legacy. 


NOTE  45,  page  166. 

"  O  vine  of  Sibmah  !  I  will  weep  for 
thee  with  the  weeping  of  Jazer  !  "  -  - 
Jeremiah  xlviii.  32. 

NOTE  46,  page  170. 

Sophia  Sturge,  sister  of  Joseph 
Sturge,  of  Birmingham,  the  President 
of  the  British  Complete  Suffrage  Asso 
ciation,  died  in  the  6th  month,  1845. 
She  was  the  colleague,  counsellor,  and 
ever-ready  helpmate  of  her  brother  in 
all  his  vast  designs  of  beneficence. 
The  Birmingham  Pilot  says  of  her : 
"  Never,  perhaps,  were  the  active  and 
passive  virtues  of  the  human  character 
more  harmoniously  and  beautifully 
blended  than  in  this  excellent  woman. " 

NOTE  47,  page  171. 

Winnipiseogee  :  "  Smile  of  the  Great 
Spirit." 

NOTE  48,  page  174. 

This  legend  is  the  subject  of  a  cele 
brated  picture  by  Tintoretto,  of  which 
Mr.  Rogers  possesses  the  original 
sketch.  The  slave  lies  on  the  ground, 
amid  a  crowd  of  spectators,  who  look 
on,  animated  by  all  the  various  emo« 
tions  of  sympathy,  rage,  terror  ;  a  wot 
man,  in  front,  with  a  child  in  her  arms, 
has  always  been  admired  for  the  life* 
like  vivacity  of  her  attitude  and  ex> 
pression.  The  executioner  holds  up 
the  broken  implements ;  St.  Mark, 
with  a  headlong  movement,  seems  to 
rush  down  from  heaven  in  haste  to  sava 
his  worshipper^  The  dramatic  grouping 
in  this  picture  is  wonderful  ;  the  color 
ing,  in  its  gorgeous  depth  and  harmony, 
is,"  in  Mr.  Rogers's  sketch,  finer  than 
in  the  picture.  —  Mrs.  Jamiesorfs 
Poetrv  of  Sacred  and  Legendary 
Art,  Vol.  I.  p.  121. 

NOTE  49,  page  175. 
Pennant,  in  his  "  Voyage  to  the  Heb 
rides,"  describes  the  holy  well  of 
Loch  Maree,  the  waters  of  which  were 
supposed  to  effect  a  miraculous  cure  of 
melancholy,  trouble,  and  insanity. 


NOTES. 


427 


NOTE  50,  page  177. 

The  writer  of  these  lines  is  no  enemy 
of  Catholics.  He  has,  on  more  than 
one  occasion,  exposed  himself  to  the 
censures  of  his  Protestant  brethren,  by 
his  strenuous  endeavors  to  procure  in 
demnification  for  the  owners  of  the  con 
vent  destroyed  near  Boston.  He  de 
fended  the  cause  of  the  Irish  patriots 
long  before  it  had  become  popular  in 
this  country  ;  and  he  was  one  of  the 
first  to  urge  the  most  liberal  aid  to  the 
suffering  and  starving  population  of  the 
Catholic  island.  The  severity  of  his 
language  finds  its  ample  apology  in  the 
reluctant  confession  of  one  of  the  most 
eminent  Romish  priests,  the  eloquent 
and  devoted  Father  Ventura. 

NOTE  51,  page  178. 

Ebenezer  Elliott,  the  intelligence  of 
whose  death  has  recently  reached  us, 
was,  to  the  artisans  of  England,  what 
Burns  was  to  the  peasantry  of  Scotland. 
His  "  Corn-law  Rhymes  "  contributed 
not  a  little  to  that  overwhelming  tide  of 
popular  opinion  and  feeling  which  re 
sulted  in  the  repeal  of  the  tax  on  bread. 
Well  has  the  eloquent  author  of  "The 
Reforms  and  Reformers  of  Great  Brit 
ain  "  said  of  him,  "  Not  corn-law  re 
pealers  alone,  but  all  Britons  who  moist 
en  their  scanty  bread  with  the  sweat 
of  the  brow,  are  largely  indebted  to  his 
inspiring  lay,  for  the  mighty  bound 
which  the  laboring  mind  of  England 
has  taken  in  our  day." 

NOTE  52,  page  179. 

The  reader  of  the  Biography  of  the 
late  William  Allen,  the  philanthropic 
associate  of  Clarkson  and  Romilly, 
cannot  fail  to  admire  his  simple  and 
beautiful  record  of  a  tour  through  Eu 
rope,  in  the  years  1818  and  1819,  in  the 
company  of  his  American  friend,  Ste 
phen  Grellett. 

NOTE  53,  page  190. 

"Thou  'mind'st  me  of  a  story  told 
In  rare  Bernardiu's  leaves  of  gold." 


The  incident  here  referred  to  is  re 
lated  in  a  note  to  Bernardin  Henri 
Saint  Pierre's  Etudes  de  la  Nature. 

"  We  arrived  at  the  habitation  of  the 
Hermits  a  little  before  they  sat  down 
to  their  table,  and  while  they  were  still 
at  church.  J.  J.  Rousseau  proposed 
to  me  to  offer  up  our  devotions.  The 
hermits  were  reciting  the  Litanies  of 
Providence,  which  are  remarkably 
beautiful.  After  we  had  addressed  our 
prayers  to  God,  and  the  hermits  were 
proceeding  to  the  refectory,  Rousseau 
said  to  me,  with  his  heart  overflowing, 
'  At  this  moment  I  experience  what 
is  said  in  the  gospel :  Where  two  or 
three  are  gathered  together  in  my 
name,  there  am  I  in  the  midst  o_f 
them.  There  is  here  a  feeling  of  peace 
and  happiness  which  penetrates  the 
soul.'  I  said,  'If  Fenelon  had  lived, 
you  would  have  been  a  Catholic.'  He 
exclaimed,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  '  O, 
if  Fenelon  were  alive,  I  would  struggle 
to  get  into  his  service,  even  as  a  lack 
ey  !'" 

In  my  sketch  of  Saint  Pierre,  it 
will  be  seen  that  I  have  somewhat 
antedated  the  period  of  his  old  age. 
At  that  time  he  was  not  probably  more 
than  fifty.  In  describing  him,  I  have 
by  no  means  exaggerated  his  own  his 
tory  of  his  mental  condition  at  the  pe 
riod  of  the  story.  In  the  fragmentary 
Sequel  to  his  Studies  of  Nature,  he 
thus  speaks  of  himself:  "The  ingrati 
tude  of  those  of  whom  I  had  deserved 
kindness,  unexpected  family  misfor 
tunes,  the  total  loss  of  my  small  patri 
mony  through  enterprises  solely  under 
taken  for  the  benefit  of  my  country,  the 
debts  under  which  I  lay  oppressed,  the 
blasting  of  all  my  hopes,  — these  com 
bined  calamities  made  dreadful  inroads 

upon  my  health  and  reason I 

found  it  impossible  to  continue  in  a 
room  where  there  was  company,  e  pc- 
cially  if  the  doors  were  shut.  I  could  not 
even  cross  an  alley  in  a  public  garden, 
if  several  persons  had  got  together  in 
it.  When  alone,  my  malady  subsided. 
I  felt  myself  likewise  at  ease  in  places 
where  I  saw  children  only.  At  the 
sight  of  any  one  walking  up  to  the 


NOTES. 


place  where  I  was,  I  felt  my  whole 
frame  agitated,  and  retired.  I  often 
said  to  myself,  '  My  sole  study  has  been 
to  merit  well  of  mankind  ;  why  do  I 
fear  them  ? '  " 

He  attributes  his  improved  health  of 
mind  and  body  to  the  counsels  of  his 
friend,  J.  J.  Rousseau.  "I  renounced," 
says  he,  "my books.  I  threw  my  eyes 
upon  the  works  of  nature,  which  spake 
to  all  my  senses  a  language  which  nei 
ther  time  nor  nations  "have  it  in  their 
power  to  alter.  Thenceforth  my  histo 
ries  and  my  journals  were  the  herbage 
of  the  fields  and  meadows.  JNIy 
thoughts  did  not  go  forth  painfully  after 
them,  as  in  the  case  of  human  systems  ; 
but  their  thoughts,  under  a  thousand 
engaging  forms,  quietly  sought  me.  In 
these  I  studied,  without  effort,  the  laws 
of  that  Universal  Wisdom  which  had 
surrounded  me  from  the  cradle,  but  on 
which  heretofore  I  had  bestowed  little 
attention." 

Speaking  of  Rousseau,  he  says  :  "  I 
derived  inexpressible  satisfaction  from 
his  society.  What  I  prized  still  more 
than  his  genius,  was  his  probity.  He 
was  one  of  the  few  literary  characters, 
tried  in  the  furnace  of  affliction,  to  whom 
you  could,  with  perfect  security,  confide 

your  most  secret  thoughts Even 

when  he  deviated,  and  became  the  vic 
tim  of  himself  or  of  others,  he  could 
forget  his  own  misery  in  devotion  to 
the  welfare  of  mankind.  He  was  uni 
formly  the  advocate  of  the  miserable. 
There  might  be  inscribed  on  his  tomb 
these  affecting  words  from  that  Book 
of  which  he  carried  always  about  him 
some  select  passages,  during  the  last 
years  of  his  life  :  His  sins,  'which  are 
many,  are  forgiven,  for  he  loved 
muck." 

NOTE  54,  page  191. 

"  Like  that   the  gray-haired  sea-king 
passed." 

Dr.  Hooker,  who  accompanied  Sir 
James  Rors  in  his  expedition  cf  1841, 
thus  describes  the  appearance  of  that 
unknown  land  of  frost  and  fire  which 


was  seen  in  latitude  77°  south,  —  a  stu 
pendous  chain  of  mountains,  the  whole 
mass  of  which,  from  its  highest  point 
to  the  ocean,  was  covered  with  ever 
lasting  snow  and  ice  :  — 

"The  water  and  the  sky  were  both 
as  blue,  or  rather  more  intensely  blue, 
than  I  have  ever  seen  them  in  the 
tropics,  and  all  the  coast  was  one  mass 
of  clazzlingly  beautiful  peaks  of  snow, 
which,  when  the  sun  approached  the 
horizon,  reflected  the  most  brilliant 
tints  of  golden  yellow  and  scarlet ;  and 
then,  to  see  the  dark  cloud  of  smoke, 
tinged  with  flame,  rising  from  the  vol 
cano  in  a  perfect  unbroken  column,  one 
side  jet-black,  the  ether  giving  back 
the  colors  of  the  sun,  sometimes  turn 
ing  off  at  a  right  angle  by  some  current 
of  wind,  and  stretching  many  miles  to 
leeward  !  This  was  a  sight  so  surpass 
ing  everything  that  can  be  imagined, 
and  so  heightened  by  the  consciousness 
that  we  had  penetrated,  under  the  guid 
ance  of  our  commander,  into  regions  far 
beyond  what  was  ever  deemed  practica 
ble,  that  itcauseda  feelingof  awetosteal 
over  us  at  the  consideration  of  our  own 
comparative  insignificance  and  help 
lessness,  and  at  the  same  time  an  inde 
scribable  feeling  of  the  greatness  of  the 
Creator  in  the  works  of  his  hand." 

NOTE  55,  page  197. 

The  election  of  Charles  Sumner  to 
the  U.  S.  Senate  "  followed  hard  up 
on  "  the  rendition  of  the  fugitive  Sims 
by  the  U.  S.  officials  and  the  armed 
police  of  Boston. 

NOTE  56,  page  201. 

The  storming  of  the  city  of  Derne,  in 
1805,  by  General  Eaton,  at  the  head  of 
nine  Americans,  forty  Greeks,  and  a 
motley  array  of  Turks  and  Arabs,  was 
one  of  those  feats  of  hardihood  and 
daring  which  have  in  all  ages  attracted 
the  admiration  of  the  multitude.  The 
higher  and  holier  heroism  of  Christian 
self-denial  and  sacrifice,  in  the  humble 
walks  of  private  duty,  is  seldom  so  well 
appreciated. 


NOTES. 


NOTE  57,  page  204. 

It  is  proper  to  say  that  these  lines 

are  the  joint  impromptu  of  my  sister 

and  myself.     They  are  inserted  here  as 

an  expression  of  our  admiration  of  the 

Sifted  stranger  whom  we  have  since 
iarned  to  love  as  a  friend. 

NOTE  58,  page  208. 

This  ballad  was  originally  published 
in  a  prose  work  of  the  author's,  as  the 
song  of  a  wandering  Milesian  school 
master. 

In  the  seventeenth  century,  slavery  in 
the  New  World  was  by  no  means  con 
fined  to  the  natives  of  Africa.  Political 
offenders  and  criminals  were  transported 
by  the  British  government  to  the  plan 
tations  of  Barbadoes  and  Virginia, 
where  they  were  sold  like  cattle  in  the 
market.  Kidnapping  of  free  and  inno 
cent  white  persons  was  practised  to  a 
considerable  extent  in  the  seaports  of 
the  United  Kingdom. 

NOTE  59,  page  210. 
It  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  say 
that  there  are  elements  in  the  character 
and  passages  in  the  history  of  the  great 
Hungarian  statesman  and  orator,  which 
necessarily  command  the  admiration  of 
those,  even,  who  believe  that  no  polit 
ical  revolution  was  ever  worth  the 
price  of  human  blood. 

NOTE  60,  page  212. 
"  Homilies  from  Oldbug  hear." 

jjr-  \y }  author  of  "  The  Puri 
tan,"  under  the  name  of  Jonathan  Old- 
bug. 

NOTE  61,  page  228. 

William  Forster,  of  Norwich,  Eng 
land,  died  in  East  Tennessee,  in  the 
ist  month,  1854,  while  engaged  in  pre 
senting  to  the  governors  of  the  States 
of  this  Union  the  address  of  his  re 
ligious  society  on  the  evils  of  slavery. 
lie  was  the  relative  and  coadjutor  of 
the  Buxtons,  Gurneys,  and  Frys  ;  and 
his  whole  life,  extending  almost  to 
threescore  and  ten  years,  was  a  pure 
and  beautiful  example  of  Christian  be 
nevolence.  He  had  travelled  over  Eu 


rope,  and  visited  most  of  its  sovereigns, 
to  plead  against  the  slave-trade  and 
slavery ;  and  had  twice  before  made 
visits  to  this  country,  under  impressions 
of  religious  duty. 

NOT::  6.2,  page  229. 

No  more  fitting  inscription  could  be 
placed  on  the  tombstone  of  Robert 
Rantoul  than  this  :  "  He  died  at  his 
post  in  Congress,  and  his  last  words 
were  a  protest  in  the  name  of  Democ 
racy  against  the  Fugitive- Slave  Law." 

NOTE  63,  page  242. 

"  Scbah,  Oasis  of  Fczzan,  102^ 
March,  1846.  —  This  evening  the  fe 
male  slaves  were  unusually  excited  in 
singingf  and  I  had  the  curiosity  to  ask 
my  negro  servant,  Said,  what  they  were 
singing  about.  As  many  of  them  were 
natives  of  his  own  country,  he  had  no 
difficulty  in  translating  the  Mandara  or 
Bornou  language.  I  had  often  asked 
the  Moors  to  translate  their  songs  for 
me,  but  got  no  satisfactory  account 
from  them.  Said  at  first  said,  '  O,  they 
sing  of  Rubee '  (God).  '  What  do  you 
mean?'  I  replied,  impatiently.  '  O, 
don't  you  know?'  he  continued,  'they 
asked  God  to  give  them  their  Atka  ?  ' 
(certificate  of  freedom.)  I  inquired, 
'Is  that  all?'  Said:  'No;  they  say, 
"  Where  are  we  going?  The  world  is 
large.  O  God !  IVhere  are  ive  go 
ing?  O  God!"'  I  inquired,  'What 
else  ? '  Said  :  '  They  remember  their 
country,  Bornou,  and  say,  "Bornou 
<was  a  pleasant  country,  full  of  all  good 
things  ;  but  this  is  a  bad  country,  and 
ive  are  miserable ! "  '  'Do  they  say 
anything  else  ? '  Said  : '  No ;  they  repeat 
these  words  over  and  over  again,  and 
add,  "O  God  !  give  us  our  Atka,  and  let 
us  retzirn  again  to  our  dear  home."  ' 

"  I  am  not  surprised  I  got  little  sat 
isfaction  when  I  asked  the  Moors  about 
the  songs  of  their  slaves.  Who  will 
say  that  the  above  words  are  not  a 
very  appropriate  song?  What  could 
have  been  more  congenially  adapted 
to  their  then  wcful  condition  ?  It  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at  that  these  poor 
bondwomen  cheer  up  their  hearts,  in 


NOTES. 


NOTE  64,  page  243. 
One  of  the  latest  and  most  interesting 
items  of  Eastern  news  is  the  statement 
that  Slavery  has  been,  formally  and  to 
tally  abolished  in  Egypt. 

NOTE  65,  page  259. 
A  letter  from  England,  in  the 
Friends'  Review,  says :  "  Joseph 
Sturge,  with  a  companion,  Thomas 
Harycy,  has  been  visiting  the  shores 
of  Finland,  to  ascertain  the  amount  of 
mischief  and  loss  to  poor  and  peace 
able  sufferers,  occasioned  by  the  gun 
boats  of  the  Allied  squadrons  in  the 
late  war,  with  a  view  to  obtaining  relief 
for  them." 

NOTE  66,  page  276. 
A  remarkable  custom,  brought  from 
the  Old  Country,  formerly  prevailed  in 
the  rural  districts  of  New  England. 
On  the  death  of  a  member  of  the  fami 
ly,  the  bees  were  at  once  informed  of 
the  event,  and  their  hives  dressed  in 
mourning.  This  ceremonial  was  sup 
posed  to  be  necessary  to  prevent  the 
swarms  from  leaving  their  hives  and 
seeking  a  new  home. 

NOTE  67,  page  288. 
"Too  late  I  loved  Thee,  O  Beauty 
of  ancient  days,  yet  ever  new  !  And 
lo  !  Thou  wert  within,  and  I  abroad 
searching  for  thee.  Thou  wert  with 
me,  but  I  was  not  with  Thee."  —  Au 
gust.  Soliloq.)  Book  X. 

NOTE  68,  page  288. 
"  And  I  saw  that  there  was  an  Ocean 
of  Darkness  and  Death  :  but  an  infinite 


Ocean  of  Light  and  Love  flowed  over 
the  Ocean  of  Darkness  :  And  in  that 
I  saw  the  infinite  Love  of  God."  — 
George  Fox's  Journal. 

NOTE  69,  page  297. 

The  massacre  of  unarmed  and  unof 
fending  men,  in  Southern  Kansas,  took 
place  near  the  Marais  du  Cygne  of  the 
French  voyageurs. 

NOTE  70,  page  309. 

Read  at  the  Friends'  School  Anni 
versary,  Providence,  R.  I.,  6th  mo., 


1860. 


NOTE  71,  page  322. 


See  English  caricatures  of  America  : 
Slaveholder  and  cowhide,  with  the 
motto,  "  Haven't  I  a  right  to  wallop 
my  nigger  ? " 

NOTE  72,  page  324. 

It  is  recorded  that  the  Chians,  when 
subjugated  by  Mithridates  of  Cappa- 
docia,  were  delivered  up  to  their  own 
slaves,  to  be  carried  away  captive  to 
Colchis.  Athenaeus  considers  this_a 
just  punishment  for  their  wickedness  in 
first  introducing  the  slave-trade  into 
Greece.  From  this  ancient  villany  of 
the  Chians  the  proverb  arose,  "The 
Chian  hath  bought  himself  a  master." 

NOTE  73,  page  329. 

This  ballad  was  written  on  the  occa 
sion  of  a  Horticultural  Festival.  Cob 
bler  Keezar  was  a  noted  character 
among  the  first  settlers  in  the  valley  of 
the  Merrimack. 

NOTE  74,  page  342. 

Lieutenant  Herndon's  Report  of  the 
Exploration  of  the  Amazon_has  a  strik 
ing  description  of  the  peculiar  and  mel 
ancholy  notes  of  a  bird  heard  by  night 
on  the  shores  of  the  river.  The  Indian 
guides  called  it  "The  Cry  of  a  Lost 
Soul "  ! 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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